


A cornucopia of noncoincidences

by muffin_reverie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Healer Hermione Granger, Quidditch Player Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-08-24 22:49:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 51,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16649347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muffin_reverie/pseuds/muffin_reverie
Summary: She was leaving her position as a Healer for good, or at least she thought she was.“I reckon you may want to reconsider that thought about not having to heal anyone ever again.” Ron awkwardly shifted on his feet.“Because you may have just broken Draco Malfoy’s nose with your knuckles.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> And thus this begins a multi-chapter effort for this unique pairing. It's still being fleshed out and it keeps going through multiple edits, but hopefully, it does not fall short of what I had in mind. Thank you for reading!

For the most of her days in her twenty nine years of her life and counting, Hermione Granger always knew she had everything sorted out. She knew where she would have to be and who she had to meet or what she needed to do at any given time of the day, and of course, she also knew what it was that was required of her. A meticulously detailed planner comfortably sat in her well-worn but very much loved saddle brown satchel, and in it are keepsakes of her days. It never ran out of pages seeing as its owner was a witch.

And then there were the days in between those when she was less sure of herself – where doubt crept in and discontent came knocking. Hermione always had a purpose and she knew where she belonged; but the universe has its way to withdraw one’s enthusiasm and create baffling questions, and the Gryffindor witch wasn’t impervious to that.

Today was one of those days. The nineteenth day in a span of thirty four days. A quiet sigh escaped her as she re-tied the loose ponytail of the disorderly curls of brown that she referred to as her hair. She briefly looked at her reflection in the windows of one of the wards for Magical Burns and Scars, and noted the creases of telltale fatigue on her face. Straightening her shoulders, she quickly looked away and mentally reminded herself that she needed sleep – at least an eight-hour sleep to recover from her continuous 36-hour rota, and not the two-hour bleary-eyed sleep she gave herself during her last shift break.

‘ _Just breathe, Hermione._ ’ She reminded herself.

Pulling on a smile in hopes to lift her spirits, the witch made her way to the emergency unit for Absolute Foolhardiness. She didn’t name that medical ward but the head of St. Mungo’s did after the innumerable absurd reasons that a screaming wizard or witch has when they are admitted into the magical hospital – when really, a simple healing incantation can resolve their predicament if only they took a few seconds to breathe and remember that they are magical beings. It helped the Healers to sort out the real life-threatening emergencies and those that were rather superficial.

The hours passed in a whirl with the asinine assortment of patients – a handful brought amusement to her but most of them made her questioned sanity. She was amazed with the unrelenting immense creativity of a mishap that one could get into. She gave bonus points to those whose ideas were exceptionally original. Cho Chang, her fellow fourth year Resident Healer assigned to the same unit, mirrored her exasperation when they were both assigned to deal with a wizard who charmed his fingers to play the harpsichord without him actually _learning_ how to. The charm predictably backfired as he was on the receiving end of extremely twitchy fingers that had a mind of their own including groping anyone within two feet of him.

It was enough to drive Hermione to Grimmauld Place with a rant that lasted almost half an hour as her best friend, the one and only Boy-Who-Lived, listened with as much good humour he could muster without wincing.

“Honestly, Harry, I don’t know what is it that I’m doing anymore.” With a huff, Hermione unceremoniously threw herself into the armchair. Her arms flopped over the armrests like a ragdoll’s.

“You are a Healer, Hermione. And a very good one too.” Harry calmly answered. “Top of the class, a favourite of the department heads, and very much loved by her patients.”

“Are you trying to butter me up?”

“You don’t see me holding two slices of bread do you?”

Hermione laughed. “Stop it, Harry. You know what I mean.”

The green-eyed wizard emitted a chuckle of his own. “What would you have yourself do instead?”

“I honestly don’t know. I feel – ” Hermione paused and looked down at a spot on her jeans before continuing with a frown etched on her face, “I feel as if my heart’s not completely in it. That perhaps I should do something else, something more gratifying for my soul.”

“I really would like it if you kept your soul intact instead of breaking them into seven pieces.”

She threw a cushion at Harry’s direction but the latter simply ducked with a hearty laugh. “We both know that Voldemort was a lazy ponce who thought splitting his soul into artefacts was a brilliant idea when really, he could have just mastered all wizardry and dark magic to be one of the most powerful wizards of all time like Professor Dumbledore was.”

“I take it that our time hunting the Horcruxes is still a memory you loathe.” Harry lightly said. “Though you have to admit, the time we got to spend together between the both of us was a good thing – it made us closer.”

“I suppose.” Hermione exhaled with a soft smile for her best friend who was also the closest she has to a sibling. “Will you help me with this, Harry? Finding out what exactly am I supposed to do if not a Healer?”

A moment of comfortable silence befell upon them and Hermione crossed her legs underneath her as Harry ruminated with a stare at the bookshelf in the corner of the room. Time quietly ticked by before Harry finally looked away. He picked up a soft wool blanket and walked over to Hermione. Draping the blanket over her legs, he settled himself in front of the armchair with a hand resting atop her covered feet. His smile was warm and kind as if hoping to ease the quiet frustration that was bubbling within Hermione.

“You’ve always been fond of helping others. It’s in your nature, Hermione. What about the Ministry with the DMLE or even the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures? You could help draft up new legislations and treaties.”

Hermione grimaced. “The administrative work I am dealing with as a Healer has put me off paperwork.”

“I never thought I’d see the day where Hermione Granger has such aversion for paperwork.” Harry teased. “Well, what about being part of the Department of International Magical Cooperation? Keeping relations with the other wizarding communities and all that fancy functions and cooperative magic?”

She sighed. “Would it be insensitive of me to say that I reckon it isn’t any more fulfilling than what I am doing right now?” Her hand dropped to Harry’s own and her index and middle fingers made little tapping motions on the top of his hand. “I appreciate what the Ministry does, and I understand that being a Healer allows me to help others when they can’t, but why do I still feel as if I’m not doing something that I truly enjoy?”

“Probably because you’re not? Remember – I said you are _fond_ of helping others. Not that it’s your life’s mission to do so.”

“Now I feel terribly selfish.”

“Hermione – you are the least self-centered person I know of. Besides, there are a lot of contenders for that coveted spot of the most selfish person.” Harry pointedly said.

Another sigh escaped the witch.

“If you want to change your profession to something that your heart beckons you to – I’ll say go for it. You deserve to be happy, Hermione.”

It was as if Harry still knew and understood the quiet thought that persisted in her heart for years, the one that she hardly spoke of but always knew it existed. It was a topic he had once broached, nine months after the end of the Second Wizarding War and when it was just the both of them under a tree by the Great Lake in Hogwarts. They have never revisited the conversation and Hermione wasn’t ready for it now either.

A wistful smile appeared. “Anything at all, Harry?”

“Anything.” He affirmed with a pat on her hand that was now resting on his own.

“It’s probably going to take me some time to figure out what it is that I’d like to do. I need to discern my passion, and what I would love to spend the rest of my life doing.” Hermione mused. “What if I never find out?” Harry’s eyebrows shot up with dubiousness. Laughter bubbled from within her in admission that the statement was rather asinine. “I’ll find something.” She breathed out with a hint of determination.

“Good. Now then, shall we have dinner?”

She narrowed her gaze. “I suppose the only reason that you put up with my rant is because you are expecting me to make dinner.”

“Well,” a sly grin found its way to Harry’s features, “it does seem like a fair trade-off.”

Hermione huffed and shoved the blanket away from her feet as she made to stand. The raven-haired wizard stood up with her, grinning. “How does fish and chips sound, Mr. Potter?”

“Fit for a famished Auror.”

“I don’t know how Ginny puts up with you.”

“It helps that I am her childhood crush turned sweetheart.” Hermione rolled her eyes, resisting the smile tugging at the edge of her lips. “But seriously, I’m glad you’re here so I don’t have to eat alone while Ginny’s away.”

“Where is she at for the weekend match?” Hermione asked as she walked to the kitchen, Harry falling into step beside her. She pulled her ponytail into a messy bun before rolling her oxford sleeves up to her elbows.

“It’s a home match, so Holyhead. The Harpies are facing off the Magpies.”

“Are you going for the match?” Hermione distractedly responded as she picked out the ingredients for dinner.

“ _We_ are supposed to be going together.” Harry pointed out.

“We are?”

“You promised Ginny you would at least watch one of her matches this season and you picked this one.”

Hermione slapped a hand to her forehead. “I almost forgot. Right, that’s this weekend.”

“Ron’s meeting us here tomorrow at nine. You did clear your rota for this, did you?”

A sheepish look crossed the witch’s face. “I may have forgotten to do so.”

Harry smirked. “Ginny’s going to send a Howler your way.”

“I promise I’ll be there by three. I have to get back to St. Mungo’s after dinner for tonight’s shift, so I will arrange something with Cho and probably be able to get away by two in the afternoon. The match doesn’t start till half past three, does it?”

Harry dropped a bag of chips into a heated pan of oil. “Seventeen years of Quidditch and you have yet to remember the exact time that a league match begins on a Saturday. Absolute rubbish of a memory you have.” He offhandedly commented.

She gave a sharp jab of her elbow to Harry’s side, earning a scowl from the wizard. “I enjoy having useful facts and figures drummed in my head, rather than match timings for witches and wizards to whiz across a pitch.” She said as she prepped the batter for the fish fillets.

“I’m telling Ginny that you’ve questioned the validity of her profession.”

A handful of batter precisely launched itself to Harry’s face. Hermione immediately laughed. Harry retaliated by pelting a chip in her direction.

“You’ve just wasted a potato’s sacrifice.” Hermione said in between laughter.

“A small decent portion of it.” Harry answered with another flying piece of chip.

She lifted up her flour-coated hands, palms forward. “Alright, I call truce. Lay down your arms.”

“Ceasefire of potatoes shall commence.”

Eyeing Harry with a narrowed look of suspicion, Hermione gradually placed her hands down. “Did we planned on staying overnight at Cardiff?” She asked.

“Ron and I reckon the match should take about a couple of hours considering how competitive both teams are to rack up the points and the Magpies’ Seeker is a conniving prat who takes pleasure in ensuring the Snitch is only captured when the points are almost even, just so the Magpies win with a higher point margin. Are you in a hurry to Floo back to London?”

She shrugged. “It depends on how dead on my feet I’ll be tomorrow after my shift.”

“You do look like you need the sleep. A racoon could mistake you for its cousin.”

“Thank you, Harry. I appreciate the endearing relationship you’ve made between me and a mammal of the procyonid family.”

Harry gave an innocent smile. “Well, the racoon is indeed a very intelligent creature too.”

A resounding plop filled in the room, followed by a sharp curse. Harry’s hand reached out to his glasses and lifted them from his nose as he swiped the glob of fresh batter from his face. Hermione raised an elegant eyebrow without a hint of guilt.

“I forgot how violent you can be, Hermione.”

“Let’s not forget how much damage I can be with a wand in my hand.” She impishly replied as she dipped a fillet into the hot oil.

Harry chuckled. “And _that_ is why I have never challenged you to a duel practice.” Wiping his glasses with the edge of his shirt, Harry distractedly continued, “Just stay the night in Cardiff. It would provide us a chance to catch up – all four of us.”

Hermione sighed. “And that reminds me of my lack of social life ever since I started my Healer studies.” She poked hard at a fish fillet in the pan. “Or rather, my lack of voluntary participation in any interaction with creatures who are not injured or teaching.”

“Cardiff it is.” Harry grinned. “I’ll make sure you don’t fall asleep at some random dodgy place when you’re supposed to be polishing up your rusty social habits.” Hermione rolled her eyes in response and Harry chuckled.

He placed the ready chips onto two large plates just as Hermione brought over the pan and carefully slid the fillets onto the plates. He turned around and withdrew a bottle white wine from the cabinets.

“Could I possibly have tea instead?” Harry grimaced at the question. “I have to get back to work after this.” Hermione retorted, pointing out a fork in his direction.

Shrugging, Harry picked up a canister of tea leaves instead and placed them in a teapot before muttering a spell with a flick of his wand. He poured the brewed tea into two mugs, without sugar and just milk as they both liked their tea, and returned to the counter top where Hermione stood waiting. They didn’t bother with the dining table seeing as it was just the two of them. She smiled at him as they clumsily clink their mugs together in a silent toast.

Hermione gladly basked in the comforting fuzzy warmth that filled her; these moments with her best friend were ones that she always looked forward to after every long shift. She wasn’t sure how Harry could stand being so patient in enduring years of medical verbosity from her but she was glad that he wasn’t complaining.

“Harry?”

“Yeah?” He answered without looking up from his picking of the chips.

“Thank you.” She softly said.

He lifted his gaze to meet hers and a mischievous curl of his lips appeared. “For cooking the chips?”

“You know what I’m referring to.” She amusedly replied.

“Always, Hermione.” He simply said. “Now eat. You have 10 minutes before you need get back to the chaos.”

She groaned and Harry reached out with a pat of consolation on her shoulder.

It wasn’t long before she was back in St. Mungo’s again and dealing with a new throng of patients. While some may think the night shift would be considerably quieter seeing as it’s the time of the day when most would be asleep, that was certainly not the case with the wizarding community. Apparently their ingenuity eluded sleep because the hours between after dinner and breakfast seemed to be the best time to brew potions or to light a bonfire, or even to charm unanimated items.

Hermione almost lost her temper by the ninth hour when a witch and her talking teapot kept up a steady stream of cussing. It wasn’t the vast range of colourful curse words that annoyed the Gryffindor. Rather, it was the fact that the witch really did had a poor choice in tea – which the teapot insisted on and reasoned it was valid enough for it to scald her hand in utter disgust, but said witch stubbornly refused to acknowledged it. Hermione bit her lower lip long enough to quickly heal the witch’s palm and moved away to her next patient before she could let it slipped that she thought it was appallingly foolish for anyone with half a logic to even consider that teabags with twigs that have been grounded into dust would be better than loose leaf tea.

When the time finally ticked to fifty past two in the afternoon, Hermione hastily rushed off to the showers after clocking out of her shift. She had been caught by an incident where a young wizard decided that it would be hilarious to stick up two wands in his nostrils to pretend he was a mammoth. As with all ridiculous ideas, the wands were stuck too far up and were emitting orange sparks when the thirteen-year-old wizard was brought in by his distraught parents. Cho’s expression undoubtedly questioned the scale of fatuity when it comes to humankind, and Hermione simply drew an infinity sign on the medical chart she was filling in as a response to the former Ravenclaw. Cho had to hide her laugh behind a pretend coughing fit.

By the time Hermione was ready to Floo to the Harpies’ Quidditch stadium, it was already fifteen minutes past the time she had promised to meet Harry and Ron. Grumbling under her breath, she hurriedly grabbed her satchel just as the green flames appeared.

“Hermione!”

She stepped out of the busy Floo network of the Holyhead Harpies’ home stadium to see Ron beaming from ear to ear. Managing a smile on her face at the sight of the redhead, she gladly stepped into his hug despite the rowdy crowd around them. She felt a jab of a bony elbow at her sides when she hugged Ron and there was an accidental tug of a curl of her hair when a group of witches walked past them. It was the crowd that really turned Hermione away from Quidditch matches. She narrowly dodged when a large banner almost flapped in her face as another group of young wizards boisterously made their way to the stands.

Ron knowingly chortled at her annoyance. “Come on, ‘Mione. We’ll get you to the stands and you’ll be safe from these walking hazards.”

“As if that would keep my eardrums from exploding with all the noise.”

“You used to love Quidditch back in school.”

“I merely tolerated it. I should have known that was only half of the madness when it comes to the actual league matches.”

“Harry wasn’t joking when he said you would be a fireball when you arrived.”

“He said what?” Hermione’s frown deepened.

The redhead laughed and tugged Hermione closer to him when a pair of wizard and witch almost knocked into her with their armloads of Harpies’ fan paraphernalia. “Don’t hex him yet – he was concerned about you and told me about your conversation with him last night. That’s why he sent me to wait for you at the Floo, he knew the madness of the crowd would bother you.”

The irritation on Hermione’s face faded almost immediately. “I suppose that’s thoughtful of him.”

“Truthfully, you didn’t sound like the usual you. I am slightly worried myself too.”

Hermione looked at Ron and the latter’s face held a small sheepish smile. “Thank you.”

His features lightened up with a cheerful grin. “Maybe being here for the weekend match would cheer you up and provide you the enlightenment you’re looking for.”

She knew Quidditch meant the world to Ron; he practically breathed in the game, but she didn’t think he would associate the match to a philosophical rationale. It was almost preposterous in her head, but instead she said, “Highly doubtful but let’s get on with it anyway.”

Ron led her to the top of the stands where Harry had saved them seats with prime view of the hoops. They barely reached their seats when the shrill sound of the whistle blew. Ginny flew past them and managed a quick grin their way before she turned her full attention to the match. Despite her lack of enthusiasm for the game, Hermione clapped and hooted a cheer anyway. Harry nudged her in the shoulders with a knowing grin.

The Harpies were extremely agile on their brooms, and it wasn’t long before they scored the first goal – courtesy of Ginny. The home crowd roared with delight. Hermione cheered for Ginny’s name as Ron hollered with pride and Harry profusely clapped hard and loud with a wide grin gracing his face. The opponents decidedly picked up the pace with bloodthirsty determination to score the next, and it was at that moment that Hermione caught a flash of striking white-blond hair in her line of vision. She considered that it could have been anyone, and didn’t bother to look again considering the maddening speed the players were all flying around. She concentrated on the Harpies instead, seeing as she was there for youngest Weasley anyway.

By the time the first hour rolled around, Hermione had her nose in a book, having lost her full interest in the match as she knew both sides would keep raking up the points for a higher goal difference in the league standings. Ron had snorted but said nothing when she flipped her book open. Her reading was hardly distracted by the raucous noise of the stadium as she easily immersed herself in the fiction of Kenilsworth Rashodante and his cunning thievery against the magical governments of the world.

So caught up was she in the story that when the crowd deafeningly booed and protested against a foul that she barely even looked up. It was only when Harry cursed under his breath that her gaze shifted in curiosity.

“What happened?” She asked the raven-haired wizard.

“Harpies’ Seeker Margareth got knocked of her broom by the Magpies. It appears that she broke all the fingers on her right hand. It was a sly move, smart but dangerous manoeuvre to get Margareth on tail and she was fooled by it. Bale’s Bludger gave her a good whack when she was distracted – clearly a strategized attack.”

“Isn’t that the point of the game?” Hermione replied.

“Well, yes, but they didn’t have to get so bodily harmful.”

“It’s a contact sport, Harry.” She answered in a mixture of amusement and exasperation.

“And she’s absolutely right, Potter.” A voice drawled from the pitch and Hermione turned around in surprise.

She hadn’t seen him for a few years, not since his Wizengamot hearing when she and Harry had testified. Seated on his broom, looking taller and less sunken and pale than she had last remembered, the wizard had his steel grey orbs fixed on her. A hint of an amused smirk crossed his features.

“Keep your eyes on the pitch, Malfoy.” Ron retorted.

“You.” Hermione was nonplussed as she stared at the former Slytherin Seeker, and apparently now Montrose Magpies’ Seeker, Draco Malfoy.

“Granger.” He acknowledged with another full smirk before doing a dexterous manoeuvre to return to the match.

“What is he doing here?”

“Don’t you _read_ the news, Hermione?” Ron’s face was a picture of genuine bafflement. “Malfoy’s the Magpies’ prized Seeker. The Magpies’ bagged the League Cup thrice since he joined, and it was thanks to him catching the Snitch that they won the finals at the last European Cup.”

“I usually skip the Sports section.” Hermione unflappably said, not the least minding Ron’s patronising tone of voice. “And why do you sound as if he is one of your favourite players? You speak of him as if you would for Janelle Pickerington. And I know she’s _your_ favourite Cannons’ player considering you never stopped talking about her since she joined the team three seasons ago.”

Harry chuckled as Ron rolled his eyes and snorted. Leaning closer to Hermione with a conspiratorial smile, “Ron’s got a bit of a love-hate fan relationship with that. He’s still struggling between admiring the skills and disliking the wizard.”

Hermione shook her head. She looked out to the pitch again and caught sight of Malfoy’s blond hair on the other side of the stadium. He was someone she had least expected to see, but she wasn’t really bothered with him. Rather, she thought she had more pressing matters such as reconsidering her profession as a Healer. She looked back down at the book in her hands, getting lost in her own thoughts, and paying little attention to the match after that.

The match between the Harpies and the Scotland-based Magpies ended with the latter on the winning end. Draco caught the Snitch at the fourth hour when the teams were at 140-150 points. Despite having lost the match, Ginny greeted the trio in cheerful spirits and especially with Hermione as the redhead witch had barely seen Hermione what with their differing schedules.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Hermione.” Ginny gushed.

Hermione returned her smile with one of her own. “It was a good match, Ginny.”

“Really?” Harry mischievously asked. “You barely looked up from your book.” His words emitted a laugh from Ginny just as she reached out to hug him as well.

“I was multi-tasking.” Hermione defensively answered, but knowing it was futile anyway. Besides, she knew Ginny long understood that Hermione and Quidditch weren’t two things that went hand-in-hand.

“I thought it was a bloody brilliant game.”

“For the Harpies or our opposition?” Ginny quipped.

A hint of red flushed at the edges of Ron’s ears and the group laughed.

“I am starting to take offense with your lack of support for your own sister’s team.” Ginny continued teasing.

“Oh come on, Ginny. You know my support for the Harpies is on default by association.”

Ginny’s face contorted into one of mock displeasure. “By association? Couldn’t you possibly sound any less more willing?”

“At least I don’t pretend the Harpies are my absolute favourite.”

Harry shot Ron a look that demanded for his redhead best friend to immediately shut up, or as Hermione interpreted it; ‘I am going to skewer your insides and feed them to a Hippogriff if you say anymore.’ His features quickly pulled on a look of indifference when Ginny turned to look at him with a suspicious glint her eyes.

“Shall we have dinner now? It’s after eight and I’m feeling the hunger pangs.” Hermione quickly suggested, earning a look of utmost gratitude from Harry. Ron shot a wicked smirk at his best friend’s way and the latter discreetly elbowed the redhead wizard in return.

“We will speak about this later tonight, Potter.” Ginny pointedly said with an innocent smile as she hooked her arm around Hermione’s. “Cardiff for dinner?”

Hermione shrugged with a sympathetic smile at Harry’s waning look of relief. Having Ginny calling him by his last name certainly wasn’t a good sign. Ron was still chuckling as he led them to the Apparition point to head into the Wales’ capital.

As soon as they arrived in the Wizarding Cardiff, Ron offered Hermione his arm and she gladly slid her other free arm around Ron’s. Harry fell into step beside Ginny, gently intertwining their fingers together. Hermione knew it was tad childish and also an impediment of mobility with the four of them walking together in a row, but after the long days she had at work – this was all she needed to remind herself that she wasn’t alone and she had a life outside of St. Mungo’s. Her friends were almost similar to a family for her; they were her tribe and her comforting cornerstone. At least with them she never really had to question who she was to be or if she fitted in.

Dinner was an enjoyable session of two hours as Hermione found herself lost to time as she caught up with the going-ons for her best friends’ days. Ron was seeing Susan Bones, their former schoolmate who was part of the Muggle Liaison Office division in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. Ginny filled them in on her call-up for the England team in the next rounds of international friendly against Jamaica and Spain. Harry shared a funny anecdote from one of his Auror missions with a junior Auror who had been too eager to prove himself to the department. Hermione recalled the incident of the talking teapot and the witch.

When the restaurant had its round of last orders, the group left for the pub next door to continue the night. Hermione had started yawning by the time the first round of drinks came around and was resting her head on Harry’s shoulder as she listened to Ron’s update on the latest mischief creation that George has for the Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. She almost choked on her Butterbeer when Ron told them that the creation was now being exported outside of the United Kingdom as well.

“George’s really outdone himself this time, hasn’t he?” Hermione said with admiration. “That’s brilliant!”

“Bloody brilliant.” Ron proudly said.

“Mom’s so proud of George that she even said that this makes up for the twins’ leaving school to set up a joke shop.” Ginny grinned. “It’s full approval all the way that George is practically her favourite son now.”

“Mom doesn’t play favourites.”

“That’s what you think.” The redhead witch snickered as Ron’s face paled.

“Wondering what’s your standing, Ron?” Harry commented with a tone of playful revenge for Ron’s earlier slip of his actual most favourite Quidditch team in the league. “It’s not the top three if you must know.”

“Probably after Harry included.” Hermione teased.

“Oi!”

Ginny and Hermione laughed. Harry smugly lifted his pint of Blishen's Firewhiskey in gesture of a toast to Ron. The banter continued until it was half past midnight and when they finally stepped out of the warm pub and into the cool night of Cardiff’s fall weather, Hermione was practically yawning by the minute.

“Shall we call it a night before Hermione falls asleep on the side of the pub?” Ginny giggled as Hermione let out another yawn with her arms stretching out and almost smacking Ron in the face.

“It’s a Saturday and we’ve only had five rounds of drinks.” Ron said, almost whining. “Surely we can go for another before she falls dead on her feet.”

“Ron, I am _terribly_ exhausted.” Hermione punctuated her words with the eloquence of a fatigue-infused witch. She reached for Harry and the raven-haired wizard knowingly stepped up to her side and offered her his shoulder as a pillow for her head.

“How about we bring her back to the inn and let her sleep before we head out again?” Ginny offered. Hermione aimed a grateful smile at the younger witch’s thoughtfulness.

“But it’s not fun without Hermione.”

“Ron, I am the least exciting person to be with at this moment. Every ounce of any drollery I’ve ever had has completely left my being.”

“But she remains a deadweight though.” Harry joked as he shifted to be comfortable under Hermione’s leaning frame. Ginny giggled at the verbal jab while Hermione pinched Harry in the arm for the comment – earning a low howl from the wizard. “That hurts!” He exclaimed.

“That was unkind of you.” Hermione huffed.

Harry looked to Ron. “Ron, if you’re going to take care of Hermione while she’s in this violent state of sleep then we can bring her along. If you aren’t, then I stand by Ginny’s suggestion.”

“I am not violent.”

“She does seem a little legless too.” Ginny commented.

Ron grimaced. “I don’t want to deal with a drunk and sleepy Hermione Granger.”

“No one really does.”

“Stop talking as if I’m not here.” Hermione irritably said, earning a chorus of laughter from the others.

“Come on,” Harry breathed out, “we’ll get you back to the Draig Brecwast Gwesty before we get another round for Ron’s sake.”

“Did you know that literally means the Dragon Breakfast Guesthouse in Welsh?” Hermione said as they started walking down the still bustling streets of Llandaff.

“No, we didn’t until now that is.” Harry fondly replied, in marvel of Hermione’s capability to still be an erudite witch despite being somewhat inebriated.

“I knew that. You pick up some Welsh while being with the Harpies.” Ginny grinned. “Speaking of dragons though, today’s meeting with a particular dragon namesake was almost brutal. That feint he pulled – Margareth really fell for it.”

Ron nodded. “It’s going to be in the papers tomorrow. I really thought he had the Snitch in his grasp.”

“His speed manipulated what we thought we saw.”

“I didn’t know he was a professional Quidditch player.”

Harry and Ron exchanged significant looks of amusement at Hermione’s lack of familiarity with Quidditch despite being in a close circle of friends who were complete loons for the sport.

“And that is why sometimes I doubt you are listening in to whatever I am sharing about my matches.” Ginny smirked. “Honestly, Hermione – a little more attention would have been acceptable.”

“We’ve tried, really. Six years in Hogwarts.”

“Don’t bother.”

“I’m still here.” Hermione swatted Harry in the back of his head and tried to reach for Ron, but the redhead quickly dodged. “It’s really annoying when the three of you speak as if I’m not listening in. And could we please discuss about me now instead of some Quidditch player?”

“What about you?” Ginny good-humouredly asked, despite knowing where the conversation was going. Both Harry and Ron had filled her in after all.

“I need to find out what I’m going to do with the rest of my life.” Hermione said, almost dramatically as she flung an arm out in a figurative gesture to her reference of life.

“This could be a phase you’re going through, ‘Mione.” Ron offered.

“It’s now Day 20 and I still feel the same way.”

“You keep count on that?” Harry asked with astonishment.

“She keeps count on everything. She’s Hermione, remember? She probably remembers what you had for dinner two Saturdays ago.”

“I don’t. And can we please stay on the topic?”

“Hermione – has it occurred to you that perhaps you just need to take a holiday?” Ginny suggested. “When was the last time you had one?”

The silence that filled the air between the quartet was ironically loud enough to answer Ginny’s question.

“Take a few weeks off and get your head in the system.”

Hermione lifted her head from Harry’s shoulder and vigorously shook it – so hard that she almost felt a headache coming on. “That’s just it, Ron. I don’t want to be part of a system. It’s dreary and exhausting.”

“But you like rules. You lived for them.” Ron retorted. “We could all have been killed – or worse, expelled!”

Harry and Ginny erupted in hilarity with Ron’s mimicking of Hermione’s most peculiar priority. Hermione felt her cheeks flaming up in embarrassment; even she had to admit that her priorities were rather odd but they were still very valid ones for a student.

“I wasn’t going to allow myself be expelled from a quality school of wizardry all because Harry and you had the insatiable desire for foolhardy bravery.” She sniffed with an air of dignity. “It would have been outrageous to have my school records to say I was expelled for traipsing where I wasn’t supposed to be and was almost eaten by a three-headed dog. No one would believe me!”

As soon as the words left her, Hermione found mirth bubbling within her and she quickly collapsed into a laughing fit with Harry, Ron and Ginny. Passersby eyed them with curiosity and strange looks but no one bothered them, thinking that the group was likely just another bunch of drunk adults out on a weekend night.

“In all seriousness,” Ginny said, catching her breath with a slight breathless note, “I reckon you really should take a break from St. Mungo’s.”

“And find something else to distract you. Something you’d enjoy doing.” Harry added.

“Something like this?” Hermione’s words effectively stopped them in their tracks as they followed her index finger to see her pointing at a sign hanging at the door of a corner shop with Victorian architecture. “For sale. To book-lovers only.” She read aloud.

Ginny took a step back and realised they were looking at a bookshop. Ron peered into the glass panels to take a glimpse inside.

“Hermione, let’s not get ahead of ourselves yet.” Harry carefully said.

“This could be it, Harry.” Hermione said, suddenly very much energetic as she stepped up beside Ron to look inside the shop. “There are tons of books inside! It’s dark but I can make out armchairs and wooden floorings, and there seems to be little nooks and alcoves within. Come and see!”

Harry sighed and obliged. Ginny followed suit and together, the four of them stared into the unlit place and tried to make sense of what their vision could afford them.

“It looks as if there are cobwebs too.” Ron commented.

“You can’t possibly spot that in the darkness.”

Ron shuddered. “If there are spiders inside, I really don’t think you should even consider this, ‘Mione.”

“Spiders are the least of a worry, Ron.” Ginny said. “She needs to know if this place could even make a profit. What’s the inventory like, and what are the footfalls past this place every day?”

“Probably loads. There’s a bakery down the street, and a quill shop just two doors down.” Hermione gladly provided without looking away from the shop’s interior. “This place shouldn’t be too shabby.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, “But then why is it being sold if business is flourishing?”

“Perhaps the owner is too elderly to keep up with the business, or is moving away?” Hermione guessed.

“Or maybe the owner finds this boring and wants to just get rid of it.”

“That’s not possible if he or she is seeking to sell the place to a book-lover only.”

“Or the owner is running from the Muggle mafia.” Hermione snorted at Ginny’s random thought. The Harpies’ Chaser shrugged. “Always a possibility. Or the owner had just committed a homicide and is trying to escape the authorities.”

“Did you watch too much of Muggle telly lately?” Harry chuckled.

“Whatever reason that the owner has for selling this brilliant establishment of exciting imaginations and wonders, I’m still sure that this is where I can see myself in the next ten years and more.” Hermione elatedly said as she made a small twirl of delight. She was already grinning from ear to ear. Catching sight of Harry’s furrow of eyebrows, Hermione grabbed hold of his arms and pulled him out to the street with her. “Come on, Harry – look at it.” She gesticulated to the shop with both hands. “Tell me this is not where you’d imagine I spend my hours in.”

Her best friend shot her a resigned smile and she knew she had made her winning point.

“Books! Loads of them – where I could curate, catalogue and share them with people who’d equally treasure them too.” She giddily added with a trail of gaiety.

“Are you sure this is what your heart wants, Hermione?”

“Absolutely.” She affirmed.

Ginny clasped her hands together with a bright smile. “That settles it. Shall we come back in the morning and negotiate the price?”

“This is amazing! I wouldn’t have to go back to my healing profession and I don’t need to heal anyone again. I don’t–”

Hermione’s sentence was abruptly interrupted by a loud smack that closely resounded of bones against bones, and followed by a dull hiss of explicit pain.

“Shite. Granger!”

“I reckon you may want to reconsider that thought about not having to heal anyone ever again.” Ron awkwardly shifted on his feet.

“Because you may have just broken Draco Malfoy’s nose with your knuckles.” Ginny helpfully supplied as Hermione stared in horror at the blood that was beginning to drip from their former Slytherin schoolmate’s nose.


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione softly sighed as she wondered if she should just stick to her current profession at the rate she seemed to be inclined to charming spells for wounds and bruises, and broken body parts. She wasn’t even on duty and yet here she was trying to fix an injury – though it was one she had apparently been the instigator of.

“Why are _you_ sighing when I’m the one who can hardly breathe here?”

“I see your mouth is functioning well. You can use it to breathe.” She didn’t bother to hide her wave of irritation for her current patient. Seated with his legs on the either side of her as she examined his nose, Draco Malfoy rolled his eyes. If his nose wasn’t injured, she was sure he would have turned his nose up at her with a distasteful snort.

“Honestly, who the fuck waves her hands around like a loon in the middle of a street?”

Hermione bit her lower lip at the crude question and instead dropped her wand into her pocket after a quick diagnosis that produced an azure glow. Without a word, her fingers reached out for Draco’s nose and she gave it sharp pull – a satisfying crack followed, alongside the howl from a tremendously appalled Quidditch Seeker for the sudden assault. It was rather gratifying for her to hear the yell of pain from the Slytherin. She drew her wand and made another inspection with a murmur of a spell.

“Merlin’s balls! Have you gone mental, Granger?”

Her wand sparked a faint sage green and Hermione smiled in satisfaction to herself, still ignoring Draco. She moved the handkerchief away from his nose – Draco’s own, and followed up with a disinfectant spell. Her hand tilted his chin up as she peered close to make sure she had everything healed. A bruise was beginning to form on the bridge of his nose. She lightly tapped her wand against it and Draco briefly flinched.

“There. All done. You can breathe with your nose in another ten minutes. Try not to sneeze in the next hour.”

“That was quick.” Ron said with admiration.

Draco narrowed his gaze. “Why? Would you like to have a bloody nose so you can experience the deftness of Granger’s healing skills?”

“No, you git.”

“Because I have a useful spell in mind that could do that for you.”

“I’m not asking for one. So sod off.”

Ginny stepped in between her brother and Draco as if to placate both sides. “Are you better now, Malfoy?” Somewhere along the many league matches and their career as Quidditch players, Ginny had seemed to have struck a civil acquaintanceship with the former Slytherin student.

“I do feel a little faint from the blood loss.”

“It wasn’t even a broken nose. You couldn’t even fill a pint with that negligible blood loss.” Hermione sharply exhaled.

“I wouldn’t even be dripping blood if it wasn’t for your daft flailing.”

“I was excited and I got carried away!”

“Well, watch where you channel your bloody excitement. Some people actually _walk_ on these streets.” Draco sneered.

“You could have watched where you were going instead!” She huffed. Draco’s lips curled in a snarl as if ready to hurl another insult but Hermione’s rebuttal was already at the edge of her tongue. “Is your father going to hear about this, Malfoy?”

Harry cleared his throat. Hermione straightened her shoulders and realised that she had touched a raw nerve. Everyone knew that Lucius Malfoy had been sentenced for life in Azkaban, and even if it had been almost ten years, it wouldn’t have been any easier for the Malfoys to be reminded of the now social pariah patriarch.

“Sorry.” Hermione quietly said. She drew back and slipped her wand into the pocket of her jeans.

“Can’t say I didn’t deserve that.” Draco coldly answered. He straightened himself and briefly touched his nose as if to examine it. An acrid gaze was aimed at Hermione, but she didn’t give him the pleasure of seeing her squirm despite the guilt that was eating her up from the inside with the words that flew out in childish rage.

“Malfoy –” Harry began but Draco waved him away.

“We’re not thirteen anymore, Potter. I can deal with petty words.” Draco callously said. He turned around and walked away, leaving Hermione feeling even guiltier.

“Come on, let’s just head back.” Ginny kindly said as she slipped her arm around Hermione’s, giving the latter a small smile. “He’ll get over it.”

“That was a terribly awful thing for me to say.”

“You didn’t really mean it.” Ron patted her on the arm. “And besides, Malfoy had it coming for him what with all that verbal prodding.”

Hermione dropped her face into her hands. “I feel dreadful.”

“Because of the prat?”

“Partly. But also because I feel like throwing up with the mixture of Butterbeer, mead and Blishen's Firewhisky.”

Ginny dropped her arm from Hermione’s and Ron almost bowled over laughing. Harry emitted a chuckle as he quickly spelled for a waste bag and held it up to Hermione just as she felt the bile coming up. Ginny held her hair back as she expelled the alcoholic contents. When she was done, Harry had a small glass of water ready in his hands, courtesy of another useful spell he learned from all his after-mission drinks with the DMLE.

“Between a new business prospect, breaking Malfoy’s nose, and Hermione now throwing up, I’d say this night has been the dog’s bollocks.”

Hermione groaned. “Ron, language please.”

Harry laughed and draped a comforting arm around the brunette witch’s shoulder. “Let’s call this a night.”

Hermione gratefully leaned into Harry’s warmth and allowed him to lead the way back to the inn they were staying for the night. She showered as soon as she got back and immediately fell into the soft comforts of the bed. She couldn’t sleep though – her mind vividly recalled the encounter they had with Draco, and how she resulted to a childishly backhanded reply to edge him out of their verbal sparring.

It took her another hour to roll herself into sleep, but it was still a restless one and by the time morning rolled around, Hermione found herself feeling worse off. She dragged herself to the bathroom for her morning routine and when the grandfather clock in the lobby stuck for nine o’clock, she was already nursing a cup of black coffee while looking over her planner. Two warm butter croissants with jam sat on her plate.

“Good morning, Hermione!” Ginny greeted as she drew the empty chair opposite her. “I take it that you didn’t sleep very well?”

Hermione’s face scrunched up in disgruntlement. “Do I still look like a mess?”

Ginny chuckled. “No, silly. It’s written all over your face that something is bothering you.” She patted Hermione on the arm, “You look lovely. I like the navy blue cardigan over your stripped boat-tee.”

“Oh.” Hermione managed a weak smile and looked down at her coffee again before taking another long sip. Ginny waved for the attention of the server and politely asked for a cup of the English Breakfast option. Hermione reached for one of the croissants and munched into the flaky yet fluffy pastry. A soft sigh of contentment escaped her.

“Harry went to get Ron. They should be down soon.”

Hermione nodded in response without a word. The croissant was a delightful distraction.

“Are you still thinking about last night? The bookshop I mean.”

She nodded again and this time, she quickly swallowed to speak. “I was hoping we could drop by the place to take a look and perhaps to speak to the owner?”

“We’ve got not much planned for the day anyway.” Ginny easily said. “We could go there after breakfast before heading off to Roath Park to bask in the weather. Do you have enough to buy the business?”

Hermione ruminated the question with another bite of her croissant. She savoured the soft buttery taste in her mouth as a quick calculation in her head took numbers from her savings and the partial investments she had done over the years.

“Hello ladies.” Ron cheerfully said as he slid into the chair between Hermione and Ginny. Harry took the other after dropping a peck on Ginny’s cheek to which the latter beamed in pleasure. “What are we talking about?”

“Hermione’s bookshop.” Ginny winked at Hermione. “She’s considering her available funds to purchase the business.”

“How much would she need for that?” Ron asked while reaching for the other croissant on Hermione’s plate.

A scowl immediately appeared on the witch’s face and Harry quickly swatted Ron’s hand away with a nod of the head in Hermione’s direction when the redhead frowned. Harry knew firsthand on how much Hermione disliked it when someone tried to swipe her favourite foods, especially croissants to which she had lately developed an utter fondness for.

“Probably a few hundred thousand Galleons or so.”

Ron’s eyes widened. Ginny shrugged.

“I should have sufficient to buy the business but not enough to replenish a new inventory if that’s needed anytime soon.” Hermione spoke up.

“Blimey. You have _that_ much in your vault?”

“Some of us actually consider between what we need and what we want, Ron.” Hermione shook her head in amusement at Ron’s disbelief.

“And we don’t spend our monthly wages as soon as we get our hands on them.” Ginny added.

“That and the fact that we also remember to set aside at least half of it for savings.” Harry chimed in.

 Ron grunted. “Alright, I get it. I am terrible with money.”

“When did you last saw fifty Galleons in your pocket for at least a whole week, Ron?” Ginny smirked.

A hue of red flushed from Ron’s cheeks and Hermione had to smile. Ron wasn’t a spendthrift but he wasn’t good at saving money for the rainy days. She made a note in her planner to speak to Ron about investments with Gringotts later. Her eyes quickly scanned her schedule for the week and she briefly wondered if she could obliterate them considering she wasn’t planning to go back St. Mungo’s if the bookshop business took flight.

“Look, let’s just go see the place before I part with the Galleons.” Hermione said, helpfully shifting the topic from an incoming onslaught of teasing for her redhead best friend. The rest agreed and they quickly settled into their breakfast before making a move.

It was an unconventional bright Sunday for an October, the clouds puffed in soft shapes and the sun gently glowed above them. The scent in the air was positively filled of fall with cinnamon, fig, apple cider and pumpkin as the magical community went about their day. It didn’t take long for them to return to the scene of the crime from the night before. A brief memory concerning a particular wizard flashed in Hermione’s mind and she made a mental note in her planner to send an owl later. It was a nifty spell that she charmed her planner with; the spell allowed her to scribble in her planner in her own handwriting without having to withdraw the planner from wherever it was. She wasn’t sure what she’d say, but it was fairly certain that an apology would have to be made.

Hermione was unhinged with giddy euphoria when they stepped into the bookshop. It was quaint, cosy and modest from the outside as if it was a regular two-storey corner lot, but it was vastly different on the inside. The sections extended magically when one stepped in, and the shelves were filled from the floor to the ceiling with stepladders quietly wheeling close when one is in need to reach the top shelves. Each shelf had a handwritten calligraphy to identify the alphabetical order by author and year.

There were little ivory parchments that hung from a gold thread by the spine of selected books, each one containing a personal anecdote, or a trivia on the author or publisher. There were armchairs hidden in the nooks with the fluffiest of cushions that swallowed the reader; providing a little hideaway. The alcoves, four of them at the ground floor and six at the top, were themed – from medieval knights and horses to bluebells and rabbits, and even to cassettes and music sheets, they decorated each alcove with a genre.

The owner of the bookshop turned out to be a couple in their late 50s who were yearning to travel the world after spending almost forty years with the bookshop and living out their days in Cardiff. Hermione’s grin was plastered on her face as she eagerly listened to their stories about the customers of the book haven, and the days the couple had throughout the years. They were very much well-versed with books, with the wife being a self-professed bibliophile, and the husband often made trips across England and Scotland for book auctions. The couple shared photos of the bookshop over the years and their inventory list. Hermione was pleased to know it contained both Wizarding and Muggle authors alike. She also discovered that the bookshop had two entrances, one for the Wizarding folk and another for the Muggles.

Breathing in deeply – taking in the scent of paper and ink, book bindings and leather covers, Hermione finally enquired of the asking price.

The elderly witch, Mrs. Warrington, gave a merry laugh. “Let’s not worry about that yet, dear. Tell us, what are your favourite books?”

“Everything that’s ever been published.” Ron answered with a wry look.

Hermione flushed a scarlet red. “Almost. But I am particularly fond of the history genre.”

“Hogwarts: A History has been her favourite for _years_.”

Harry snorted a laugh behind his hand at Ron’s words.

“I do enjoy fictional mysteries, especially from Yoav Goldshire and Muggle ones from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Dorothy Sayers and the recent new author, Tana French. Her debut book was startlingly fascinating and I look forward to her writing career as she churns out more.”

“Eira here loves a good mystery book during the rainy days as well.” Mr. Warrington said with a gleam of affection in his eyes when he looked at his wife. “Always curled up with a cup of tea but leaving it untouched until the rain stops and the tea would be too cold to be drinkable.”

“And you, cariad, would always make another fresh cup for me afterwards.” Mrs. Warrington answered with a loving squeeze of her husband’s hand. She turned to Hermione once again, smiling. “How do you feel about love stories?”

“Only the unconventional ones.” Hermione admitted. “I don’t have much of a fancy for romance.”

“But romance is all around us. It brings magic to life, without a wand.” Mr. Warrington said with an amused smile. “Would it be presumptuous of me to guess that you lean towards scepticism for the topic?”

Hermione shook her head. “Not at all. That would be rather accurate actually.”

“Why surely some lad must have noticed that you are charming lady to be acquainted with.” Mrs. Warrington said with a click of her tongue in disapproval. “They must be possibly gormless to not notice your intellect and benevolence.”

Ginny guffawed at the statement as she poked Ron hard in the sides. Ron shot her an offended frown.

“Ah, and what brought you to give this lovely miss a pass of your affections, young man?” Mrs. Warrington said as she caught on to the exchange.

“It’s really not his fault,” Hermione began to explain, “We just didn’t see eye-to-eye on things, and even if we did, it came out tad forced. For the most of it, we were very much opposites. Despite the saying that opposites attract, I’m afraid that is not a compelling reason for us to preserve the affection after the attraction.”

“We tried it but it didn’t work. Our relationship works much better as friends.”

Ginny nodded. “Three years, and I’m honestly glad when they finally decided to throw in the towel. As much as I’d love to have Hermione as a sister, but their dynamics didn’t fit into a romantic relationship. Ron couldn’t understand the way Hermione thought of things and how she appreciates purpose and sharp wit, while Hermione couldn’t grasp Ron’s train of logic and impulsiveness at times.”

“I suppose that happens when two paths aren’t aligned. But surely there are others for you, Ms. Granger?” Mr. Warrington kindly asked Hermione.

“None that could actually be deserving of her intellect.” Harry said, smiling. “She leaves them gutted each time some brave bloke tries a pick-up line on her.”

“Decimates them within a minute.” Ginny quipped as an afterthought.

The elderly couple laughed. “I’m sure there’s a young man out there who could be very well in your certifiable judgment of an acceptable suitor. Don’t leave your heart guarded and closed off just yet.” Mrs. Warrington warmly smiled at Hermione.

“Thank you.” She said, but without much hope. She wasn’t really looking out anyway. After Ron and between her Healer studies and housemanship, Hermione barely gave thought to a romantic relationship. She was satisfied with her social circle of close friends, and being in the comfort of her family with her parents and their small extended Granger-Holland family tree.

“Now then, tell us about one of your favourite books.” Mrs. Warrington prompted.

“Good Omens. It is tad ridiculous to adore a fiction about the end of times with two sharp opposing sides of a religious belief, but the storyline is utterly captivating and their dialogues are uproarious.”

Mr. Warrington chuckled. “I’ve always fancied the thought of Mr. Pratchett and Mr. Gaiman as two wizards masquerading as Muggles. Their supposed imagination often crossed the borders of our Wizarding world.”

Surprised, Hermione eagerly leaned closer, “Do you really think they could be?” She grew up with the Discworld series from her father’s collection, and when she was younger – she had wondered if the author himself was a wizard.

Laughing, Mr. Warrington shrugged. “I asked the man himself but he laughed with one of his clever quips to dismiss the thought.”

“You’ve met him, Mr. Warrington?” Hermione was awestruck by the sudden revelation.

“Mr. Pratchett came by for two readings.” The elderly wizard explained.  “A very bright man with the drollest of thoughts, and never once did he let his fame get in the way of speaking to anyone.”

“He was a lovely man.” Mrs. Warrington agreed.

Beaming, Hermione continued in her thrilled anticipation, “So you would have book readings here in the bookshop?”

“At least every quarterly.”

“From Muggles, wizards and witches?”

“Well, we welcome all authors. Even those who would just drop by and offer a reading before we even had known of his or her book.” Mrs. Warrington explained.

“That’s wonderful!”

“This is exactly why Hermione’s your best bet in selling the business to, Mr. and Mrs. Warrington.” Ginny smoothly edged in. “Her enthusiasm for books, their authors, and her fellow readers is unmistakeably palpable.”

“Very much so it seems.” Mr. Warrington said with a hearty grin.

“We’ll just have to go through a few things on the inventory and the upkeep of the place just to make sure.” Mrs. Warrington amiably pointed out. “Come dear, let us show you around before you decide.”

Hermione gladly placed her hand on the proffered arm to accept the invite. As she walked away with the couple, Ginny settled into the armchair with Harry’s arms wrapping around her waist and Ron helped himself to a scone that was brought out for them by Mr. Warrington when they first entered with their interest in the bookshop.

“Reckon this is it for Hermione?” Ron asked in between bites.

“If it is, that would mean Cardiff will be her new home instead of London.” Harry pointed out. Ron’s face fell as the thought hadn’t occurred to him. Harry let out a quiet exhale of his breath – he wasn’t ready to have the smartest witch of their generation to move cities away either, although it was just an almost three-hour distance by car or train. Being a wizard though, the distance didn’t really matter with Floo and Apparition points. But there are the occasional moments when he fancied just being a walking distance away from her flat, or within the vicinity of St. Mungo’s to call on her for lunch.

“Isn’t that thought a bit selfish?” Ginny said. “We want her to be happy and if this is what fills her heart with contentment, then we should support her decision.”

“I’m not saying that I don’t want Hermione to be happy, but I am going to miss her. It’s bad enough that you’re away for your league matches around the country, and now Hermione too?”

Ginny’s expression softened and she gave Harry a gentle caress at the chin. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t be. I’m proud of your athletic skills and your exceptional Quidditch talent. I don’t want you to put them to waste just to stay in London with me, doing some mundane job that wouldn’t do justice to your skills.”

“And can we now get back to the topic of Hermione moving away?” Ron said with a nauseated expression. “I am still trying to eat my scone here.”

Ginny giggled. “Honestly, Ron. You ought to be used to this by now.”

“My best friend and my little sister.” Ron pretended to deliberate. “Nope. Sorry, mate – I still can’t take those lovey-dovey moments.”

“After all that I have put up with you and Lavender Brown? And then Tracey Davis, and now Susan Bones?” Harry knitted his eyebrows. “And of course, our very own Hermione in which I have yet to hex you for all those times you’ve made her cry.”

Ron held both his hands up. “We all know what happens when you’re livid, Harry. Megalomaniac wizards tend to die so let’s not get all hasty right now.” Ginny and Harry burst into peals of laughter, as did Ron.

“I’m surprised you knew about megalomaniacs.” Ginny breathlessly said.

Her brother grinned. “Hermione used it a few times to described You-Know-Who and I suppose it got stuck with me.”

“The perks of having Hermione around.” Ginny mused. She exchanged a wistful smile with Harry. “We are going to miss her terribly, aren’t we?”

“Terribly.” The bespectacled wizard affirmed.

“What’s so terrible?”

Hermione’s voice lifted their attention. She was beaming from ear to ear, still revelling in her discovery of the bookshop. It seemed to Harry that it was fast becoming a permanent expression of hers ever since they stepped into the place.

“Nothing.” Harry quickly said, not wanting to allow a sliver of their melancholy to affect Hermione’s bright spirits. “How’s the place?”

“Brilliant. Of course there are plenty of things for me to learn and all, but it’s going to be an extraordinary experience. I can’t wait to get started.”

“And the price of the business?” Ginny wondered aloud.

“Fifty three hundred thousand Galleons.” Hermione answered.

“Merlin, that’s a lot.” Ron uttered.

“It’s a lovely bargain considering of the inventory the place has.” Hermione continued. “I probably would have to sleep here for the first couple of months instead of renting a flat, but I should be able to manage.”

“That’s pants.” Ginny shook her head. “You need a proper place to call home, Hermione.”

“This _is_ home for me, Ginny. Look at it.” Hermione gestured with her hands. “I wouldn’t even mind sleeping here.”

Ginny looked to Harry for help. “Definitely not healthy.”

“Ginny’s right, Hermione. You can’t sleep in any of these armchairs, and no – not even that alcove you’ve been gushing on for its view of the world outside.”

“Harry, I’ve been sleeping in those lumpy coffee-spilled sofas, empty hospital beds heavily doused with medical disinfectants, and even the caretaker’s closet when I’m really desperate for peace at St. Mungo’s. This is comparatively comfortable to all that.”    

Harry sighed. “What about your meals?”

“There’s a quaint kitchenette in the back, and the bakery’s down the street. Eateries all around.” Hermione pointed out. “And I’m sure Mrs. Weasley would be sending over a warm home-cooked meal every now and then.”

Ron nodded. “That she positively will. She will gladly feed a village if you asked her to.”

“Well, what about hygiene?” Harry argued.

“They are not heathens, Harry. There’s a small bathroom that I can use to freshen up. Besides, I just need to shower and make sure I don’t smell. A run of the brush through my unruly curls is enough to pull it into a ponytail.”

“You’ll never know who you might meet.” Ginny disputed. “What if your suitor shows up through this very door?” She arched an eyebrow.

Hermione laughed. “Then he better well understand that I rather live with books than as a proper lady in some manor. Really, is that so much of a concern?”

Harry, Ron and Ginny looked at each other with matching defeated expressions.

“So, do I have your respective blessings to purchase this place?”

Harry swallowed hard. He gave a sharp shake of his head when Ron looked as if he was about to say something – the raven-haired wizard knew what it was. “Yes, you do, Hermione.” He said.

“Thank you, Harry.” Hermione smiled with a perceptive glint in her warm brown eyes when she met his gaze. She knew he was hiding something from her and she would find out soon enough. For now however, she wasn’t going to force it out of him. “We’ll be signing the paperwork on Saturday after I get my finances sorted.”

“Would you like me to accompany you?” Ginny offered.

Hermione shook her head. “You should take the rest and spend your time back in London before your internationals, Ginny. I’ll be able to manage this.”

“What about St. Mungo’s?” Ron asked.

“I’ll send off an owl later to let them know of my immediate resignation. I imagine a week’s notice should be sufficient.”

“And your flat back in London?”

“I’ll inform the landlady that I’ll be moving out and have all my belongings packed within the week. I just need to figure out where to move them though.”

“You can move them into Grimmauld Place.” Harry offered. “There’s always place for you there, Hermione.”

“Is that your way of saying if this does not work out, I’ll still have a place to stay with you?”

Harry grinned. “You do know the room you lived in when you were studying for your Healers certification is still yours? And no one else uses the library but you?”

Hermione walked over to Harry and wrapped her arms around him in a grateful hug. “Thank you.”

The rest of the Sunday passed quickly as did the week. Hermione found herself busy with the juggle between her last few shifts and her impending move from one city to another. Cho had been upset with the news of Hermione’s leaving but Hermione mollified the former by reminding Cho that she had one less contender for the coveted position as the top attending Healer next year. Cho rolled her eyes with a laugh before giving Hermione a near bone-crushing hug. Hermione had admittedly grown equally fond of the former Ravenclaw after their housemanship experience. In fact, Cho was the next closest female friend she’d confide in. Cho promised that she would come by to visit the bookshop during the next rota where she has a few days of break.

“Don’t forget me, Hermione, or I’ll send you a Howler for every time a patient comes in with a tarantula bite and I have to deal with it.” Cho playfully threatened.

Her parents were surprised but supportive with her decision when she dropped by via Floo during her break on Tuesday. She was glad that her parents allowed their fireplace to be part of the Floo network upon their return from Australia; it made it much easier and quicker for her to visit them whenever she wanted to.

Mr. Granger had been silent during her explanation of why she was leaving her Healer profession and she had initially assumed he was disappointed in her choice. But when her father left the drawing room for a moment and returned with a book in his hands – the first book he had read to her, Peter and Wendy, tears filled her eyes as she recognised the gesture. The book was among the first editions from Hodder & Stoughton and her father had kept it in almost mint condition. Hermione remembered taking a deep breath of its fine ink and centuries-old papers when he first opened the book to read to her. She had been only two and a half and it was one of her first memories with her father. It was also the book that started her lifelong affection for stories that these printed materials contained within them.

Ron and Harry dropped by on Wednesday evening to help her pack, and the Healers threw her a farewell party on Friday afternoon. The head attending Healer, Manuel Roja-Vasquez, was evidently disappointed with her decision as he kept sighing every time they crossed paths but he did gave her a firm handshake during the farewell to wish her well. To her surprise, he and the rest of the attending Healers also presented her with a gift – a little chest filled with supplies for magical maladies.

“Once a Healer, and you’ll always be one.” Manuel firmly said. “You’ll find this handy, Granger.”

Inwardly, she hoped she never would have to use it because it would mean expecting some sort of catastrophe to happen in the bookshop. Bookshops were meant to be safe and delightful havens, at least which was of her opinion.

In between the arrangements of farewells and packing, she also remembered to send a short note to Draco. It was succinct to the point and she even attached a small pot of healing balm for his nose as a goodwill gesture.

Harry came by again on Saturday morning with the offer to accompany her to Cardiff but she gently declined as she knew it was a rare weekend that he got to spend with Ginny where he wasn’t on an Auror mission and the youngest Weasley didn’t have a match.

“Are you sure, Hermione?”

She nodded with a reassuring smile. “Very much so. Now go and spend time with Ginny.”

“Will we see you for breakfast tomorrow?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Right.” Harry took a deep breath and gave her another smile before making to turn to leave.

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

Hermione fiddled with the edge of her white oxford shirt for a brief moment. She looked up to meet Harry’s gaze with a rueful expression. “That day back in the bookshop, there was another reason that you, Ron and Ginny didn’t want me to proceed with the purchase, wasn’t it?”

“It’s really nothing.”

“It feels as if I’m leaving behind my life here.” Her words meant to be a question but instead it came out like statement. She knew it was because it was the truth. The thought had crossed her mind a plenty of times over the week and it brought on a queasy feeling within her each time.

‘ _I don’t like the idea of leaving them behind – especially Harry._ ’

“Hermione, no.” Harry said, walking back to her and his hand gently clasping her arms. “Don’t feel bad.”

“I’m sorry, Harry.” Hermione breathed out, the words tumbling with tinge of misery and guilt. “I wouldn’t leave you or Ron or Ginny. It just happened to be in another city where I found my passion. If it was here in London, I would take it up in a heartbeat.”

“I know you would. But this isn’t about me or us. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. If you want to change your profession to something that your heart beckons you to – go for it.”

“I promise I’ll be back to visit as much I can. Every Sundays.”

Harry chuckled. “You don’t have to be the only one to make the travel. Ron and I will visit as well. Ginny will drop by whenever she has a home match too.”

“I can’t describe how grateful I am with everyone’s understanding.”

“You deserve to be happy, Hermione.” Harry reassured and placed a soft peck on her forehead.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” She said, smiling.

As soon as Harry left her flat, she apparated into Wizarding Cardiff and briskly made her way to the bookshop. Mr. and Mrs. Warrington warmly welcomed her as soon she stepped in, offering her a cup of tea before she could even sit down. Mrs. Warrington dismissed the thought of getting straight into the paperwork as they asked Hermione about her week. She gladly filled them in and politely asked of their travel plans which they would embark on as soon as the sale was completed.

“We’ve decided on our first two destinations, Ireland and then France. After that, we’ll just see where our hearts beckon us to.” Mr. Warrington merrily said.

“There’s no rush for us.” Mrs. Warrington explained. “So as long we are together, that is enough.”

“Any place would be an adventure with Eira.”

Hermione felt a warm fuzzy feeling settling within her at the endearing sight of the elderly wizard and witch. The little voice within her said if she was to fall for someone and be in a relationship, this would be what she would want.

‘ _Old and wrinkly, with casual banters, charming conversations, and scatters of affection._ ’

As if sensing Hermione’s thoughts, Mrs. Warrington tenderly pat Hermione’s hand. “You will find your companion for your life’s adventures soon enough.”

A soft hue of blush appeared at her cheeks. She thought of Harry and Ron and decided that perhaps if she doesn’t, at least she did have her share of adventures with her best friends – as life-threatening and maddening as they had been.

Mr. Warrington brought out the rolls of parchment to sign. Hermione had her own copy which the couple had mailed to her on the Sunday before so she would have time to review the agreement and consult for any legal advice if she needed it.

“My dear, are you sure this is what you’d like to do?” Mrs. Warrington gently asked before she was to put her quill to the parchment. “Please excuse me with this question. Let it be said that we are more than delighted to entrust the bookshop to you as you’re exactly the person we have in mind and we know you’d take great care of it.”

“But you do have a thriving career as a Healer with one of the wizarding world’s most distinguished hospitals. We don’t want you to look back with regret.” Mr. Warrington finished.

An appreciative smile crossed her lips as she straightened her shoulders with firm determination. “In ten years from now, the biggest regret I would have is not taking up this opportunity if I let it go now.” She said with feeling.

Looking satisfied, the elderly witch nodded in understanding and gestured to Hermione to continue. Hermione signed her name where it was required, and the Warringtons signed their own just right next to hers. The signatures glowed in amber to signify a legally binding agreement. Mr. Warrington added his family insignia to the signatures before rolling up the parchment and had a waiting owl send it off to the Ministry’s Department of Magical Commerce and Establishments.

“Congratulations, Ms. Granger.” The elderly witch said, clasping Hermione’s hand within her warm, wrinkly ones.

“Thank you. I promise I’ll take a good care of the place.”

“We have no reservations that you would.”

The door to the bookshop pulled open at that very moment, and a familiar stature stepped into Hermione’s line of vision.

“Eira, I brought the marmalade I was talking about the other day. Have you got that –” the words of the newcomer trailed off as soon his gaze fell upon Hermione’s presence.

“Draco.” Mrs. Warrington warmly acknowledged, standing up from her seat and missing Hermione’s look of shock. “Lovely of you to finally drop by. And yes, I certainly have the croissants you were raving about the last time you were here.” The grandmotherly figure patted Draco in the cheek as a doting gesture before she retreated to the back of the shop.

To add on to Hermione’s confusion on what was unfolding before her eyes, Mr. Warrington met Draco at the door with a one-armed hug and the younger wizard distractedly accepted the gesture, albeit stiffly.

“Alright there, James?” Dressed in a Muggle outfit of dark chinos, grey t-shirt and a leather jacket that looked suspiciously impervious to the unpredictable rainy days of Wales, Draco greeted the elder wizard, briefly taking his eyes off Hermione. However the steel grey orbs quickly returned to meet her chocolate brown ones.

“Splendid. We’ve just sold the business.” Mr. Warrington beamed. “But before that, how have you been, lad?”

Draco seemed to have trouble finding his words just as much as Hermione found herself struggling to piece together everything. “Well – we won. I mean we won the last match against the Harpies.”

“So I’ve read in the Daily Prophet and Quidditch Mad.” Mr. Warrington approvingly said. “I’m chuffed with that artifice of yours in the match.”

“Thank you, James.”

Mr. Warrington’s eyebrows knitted together as he finally noticed that Draco’s attention wasn’t entirely on him. Cheerfully, he nudged Draco towards Hermione’s direction. “My terrible manners. Allow me to introduce you to the charming young lady who has just bought over this place.” He led Draco forward as Hermione fumbled to stand. “Ms. Hermione Granger. The new proprietor of Scripts and Scribbles.”

“You bought this place?” Draco’s face coloured with astonishment.

“Hello, Malfoy.” She offered with an uncomfortable smile.

“Here we are. Fresh croissants to accompany our tea.” Mrs. Warrington’s voice interrupted the awkward interaction. “Draco, a cup of tea for you?”

“ _You_ bought Scripts and Scribbles?” Draco repeated, ignoring the elderly witch’s question. His piercing gaze was bewildered and inquisitive.

“Well yes. It’s not that hard to grasp, is it?” Hermione replied, feeling slightly insulted by his tone of voice. “I can manage a bookshop if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I have no doubt a swot such as you would be capable of that.” Draco scowled. “It’s more of the fact that buying this establishment means that you will be here instead of in London.”

“And what is _wrong_ with that?”

“This is not where you belong.”

Hermione stepped up to Draco. “And I’m sure you are about to tell me where it is that I belong, Malfoy?”

“Draco, is that any way to speak to a lady?” Mrs. Warrington admonished. “Will you sit down and behave like a respectable young man?”

Hermione resisted a derisive snort but Draco caught on with a narrowed gaze. He took a step back from her anyway and settled himself by the armchair that Mr. Warrington had settled in and amusedly watched them from.

“Tea, Draco?”

“Yes, please.” He said through gritted teeth.

“Now, I’m well aware the both of you are acquainted – possibly through Hogwarts?” Mrs. Warrington said in her attempt to restart the pleasantries.

“Yes, we were schoolmates.” Hermione boldly said with her gaze fixed on Draco as if daring him to rebut her words.

“Ah yes. Gryffindor and Slytherin.” Mr. Warrington sagely nodded. “I now see where this animosity is coming from.”

A small chortle escaped Mrs. Warrington. “Fy cariad, let’s not jump into assumptions now.”

“It’s more than just that.” Hermione said. “Our bloodlines greatly differ as well.”

Draco shot her an aggravated look. “I have yet to say anything on that.”

“You insinuated it just minutes ago.”

“Really, Granger? You deciphered the exact context I was referring to and decided that it concerned your blood status?”

“What else could it possibly mean with you?”

Draco stood tall, indignant and clearly insulted. “I accepted the Wizengamot’s sentence for a reason, Granger. I acknowledge my past and abhorrent doings, but I won’t allow myself to be indicted now by something I have no part of anymore.” Before Hermione could say anything else, Draco turned his gaze to Mrs. Warrington and excused himself. “I’ll send an owl before the both of you are due to leave for your travels, Eira. Keep well.” With that, Draco stalked off.

Hermione let out a puff of breath. She bit at her lower lip and wondered when she turned into someone spiteful enough to drag up someone’s past. Her apology note earlier in the week was good as rubbish now that she had jumped down his throat again.

“Draco lives here in Cardiff, my dear.” Mrs. Warrington explained for Hermione’s benefit. “That likely explains his surprise to know that you’d be around as well.”

Hermione felt her jaw lightly dropping at the disclosure. Feeling incredibly foolish, she hurried excused herself to run after the Magpies’ Seeker. To her disappointment, as soon as she got out on the street, he was nowhere in sight. She ran up street just in case but the startling white-blond hair was out of her line of vision.

Feeling dejected, she returned to the bookshop and wondered how she should apologise this time around. She had a feeling a little grovelling might be required.

“Draco will come around.” Mr. Warrington kindly reassured her when she entered the bookshop with a slump of her shoulders. “The lad may be a little hot-headed, but he has his heart in the right place.”

“He sounds like an entirely different person from the Malfoy I knew. I wish I remembered that before opening my mouth with those callous words.”

“Everyone deserves a second chance.” Mr. Warrington said. “Including you, Ms. Granger.”

“I’m not sure why I am so quick to affront him. It’s really unlike me.”

“Sometimes we hurt others before they could hurt us.” Mrs. Warrington thoughtfully offered, causing Hermione to look up with a flush of mortification and guilt. “Being defensive is a self-coping mechanism, but it becomes a nuisance if we allow it to get in the way of knowing someone better.”

“Just as you are feeling responsible that you’ve said something wrong, Draco is likely to be feeling the same way. While he may have been offended, it was also visible that he was frustrated for giving you a wrong impression with his choice of words.” Mr. Warrington rubbed his chin, a small smile appearing at his lips. “It’s nothing that can’t be sorted with a proper conversation.”

“Promise us that you will try talk to him?” Mrs. Warrington prompted. Hermione nodded. “That’s a relief. We can’t have our two favourite young adults at odds with each other. That would be terribly awkward.”

“Especially when one’s the proprietor of the shop that the other frequents.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Wait. Would you mind repeating that?”

“Draco frequents Scripts and Scribbles. This haven is his favourite pastime.”


	3. Chapter 3

Each time the doors to the bookshop opened, Hermione couldn’t help but hoped it would be a particular wizard walking through. She wanted to apologise but she wasn’t sure how, and sending another owl seemed thoughtless of her. Especially after the first apology which clearly, she messed up that one.

It was Thursday; five days since she discovered she had bought over the very bookshop that was apparently Draco Malfoy’s favourite place.

Sunday came and gone easily as she spent the rest of the late afternoon and all the way into closing with the elderly couple to understand how their business worked. Harry had accompanied her, having opted to Floo into Cardiff with her after their brunch with Ginny, Ron and Susan. Monday was a full day where Mr. Warrington meticulously explained on the account books, expenses and the overheads, while his wife provided Hermione with the inventory lists and all necessary contacts.

She was left to her own on Tuesday, the very day that the elderly couple formally turned the keys over to her. Ginny had dropped by with a bouquet of velvety coloured lisianthus and berries to wish her well, while the Weasleys had sent over a basket of plum and pecan pies alongside a small pot of wild mushroom and lamb stew. Mrs. Weasley even added a note that there will be an owl delivering to Hermione a home-cooked meal every Tuesdays and Fridays – Ron certainly wasn’t joking about his mother’s enthusiasm to feed her. Harry and Ron sent the softest Sherpa throw blanket that she has ever felt, and a large pillow, causing Hermione to laugh at their evident worry about her sleeping in the bookshop. George and Angelina delivered a box of treats from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, to which if it wasn’t signed with Angelina’s name, Hermione would have likely left those sweets and chocolates alone. As much as she loved George and his sense of humour, she didn’t want start throwing up or turning into the colour of fuchsia in front of the customers.

Cho’s owl, a tawny owl with the brightest onyx eyes, popped in on Wednesday morning when she was opening up for the day. In its beak were a good luck card and a small package containing fine-feathered quills. Mr. and Mrs. Granger had equally chose the practical route by gifting her an autobiographical book on a famous Muggle entrepreneur and a self-help print on keeping up a small business. She had been mildly amused but mostly grateful with the thought. It was however, Professor McGonagall, whom she had kept in touch with throughout the years even after graduating from Hogwarts, who had sent her most favourite gift even if Hermione hadn’t wanted to be partial to any of the well-wishers. The small table gramophone in hues of cinnamon and walnut brown of spruce and bronze fittings proudly sat by her favourite alcove, the one of stars and constellations; churning out soft music from old vinyl records that Mr. Warrington had left behind.

The day seemed to be a little slow with a handful of customers so Hermione decided to find something she could do to personalise the shop with her own touch. Everything else within it were perfect as it were and she knew she wouldn’t want to disrespect the elderly couple’s lovingly handmade embellishments and decorations. Turning to the shop front’s bay window where the newest arrivals are placed, Hermione wondered what if she highlighted the other books that she would like to recommend to the curious onlookers or the bookish regulars. She was seated in her favourite alcove when the thought occurred to her.

Grabbing her planner and a quill, she began a list of her favourite books before categorising them by reading genre or a common topic. A themed window display would be her own personal creation for Scripts and Scribbles.

Hermione drew another line and began a list of props she could gather to accompany each category she had on the left column. Her first themed window would be chocolates, considering the time of the month that was drawing close to Halloween. The easier option would have been setting the theme to the festive celebration itself, but feeling as if it was too predictable, she chose its frequent association instead. She already knew which of the books that would sit in the middle of the display – it was none other than Roald Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, the very book she had received as a summer reading from her maternal grandmother when she was five. The Fiendish Chocolate Dragon, a wizarding picture book was her second choice, followed by Nuttier by the Second: A Prophecy of The Chocolatiers, and Chocolat as well as its sequel from a Muggle author.

The Gryffindor witch spent her entire afternoon until dinner time decorating the window front, humming songs from a particular Muggle animated musical film. She had autumn leaves, and little pumpkins scattered to a corner, and chocolate dipped lollipops with decorative spots and stripes of orange and yellow aligned across the bay window. There were even chocolate balls with little eyes and eight legs to make up the little spiders that dangled from twines dipped in chocolate and shaped into webs. Being a witch had its perks as Hermione skillfully charmed her decorations and added an extra spell that repelled all insects and ants from the jamboree of sweetness in the bay window. A chestnut brown mug and a tangerine mug sat by a stack of books – inscribed with the words ‘Scripts’ and ‘Scribbles’ in Hermione’s own cursive handwriting. The mugs were charmed to emit little wisps of steam as if they were constantly filled with hot cocoa. If a Muggle asked, she would simply tell them it was dry ice.

Occasionally, a customer or two would walk in with curiosity and distract Hermione from her task as she explained what she was doing and they would end up laughing in delight before purchasing one of the books she had intended to place in the display.

Hermione was in the midst of murmuring, ‘what’s this, what’s this’ as she hung up the last of the decoration, a twine of chocolate candy barks that were littered with candy eyes and orange and yellow M&Ms when the door chimed open to indicate of a newcomer.

“Hello! Welcome to Scripts and Scribbles.” She cheerfully called out. “I’ll be with you in a bit as I get these chocolates hooked up. Please feel free to look around.”

“I thought this was a bookshop.”

Hermione’s fingers slipped from the knot she was creating when she heard the recognisable male voice. Abruptly turning around, her vision was greeted by the one person she had been hopeful to see since Sunday. Except now, said person was also flaunting a dreadful bruise at his right chin, a grisly split lip and what looked a deep scrape just below his right eye.

“What does the other party look like?” She asked in aghast.

“Extremely round, jet black, and still looked as solid as it always has been, considering it’s made out of iron.”

Hermione tore herself away from the window display to walk up to Draco. “You allowed a _Bludger_ to hit you?”

“I’m not that daft, Granger. I was distracted by the Snitch that was merely centimetres away from my leg when the Bludger came my way.”

Mechanically, Hermione walked around him for the counter and reached for the little chest that was given to her during the farewell party thrown by her fellow Healers. She pointed to the small circle of armchairs at the centre of the shop. “Sit.”

Draco raised an eyebrow but winced as he realised too late that the gesture would inflict additional pain on his already wounded face.

“Don’t you have a team of Healers for injuries like this?”

“You should have seen the others.” Draco smugly replied, settling himself into an armchair. “I thought I would lessen the headache for the medic team.” He languidly dropped his robes onto the other armchair and leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment.

“They are your medic team. They are obligated to nurse you back to health, or at least to a decent appearance.” Hermione pointedly said as she pulled on a pair of disposable gloves. As exasperated as she was that he showed up with injuries and seemingly disregarded the fact that they had a spat on Saturday which they have yet to even talk about, she still couldn’t negate her Healer instinct but to fix him up. She immediately set about to cleaning his wounds.

Draco opened his eyes to look at her and shrugged, “I took a look at the mirror after my shower, and it didn’t look that bad.”

“I thought you cared about your appearance, Malfoy.” She flippantly said.

“Not after a bleeding 31-hour Quidditch match against the German team.” Draco’s lips arched into a smirk despite his split lip. “I consider this fastidiously groomed just by remembering to change out of my Quidditch gear and to shower with soap and shampoo.”

“31 hours?”

“International friendlies aren’t the same as your usual league matches. Surely Weasley would have shared that with you during your girlish chatters.”

Hermione pressed down the cotton swab harder than necessary, earning a hiss from Draco. She gave an innocent shrug in return. As she disinfected his wounds, she couldn’t help but notice his facial features. In particular of the stubble around his chin which gave off a masculine composition to his otherwise smooth skin. He features were still sharp but more structured and defined, and he wasn’t a hue of pale porcelain anymore but rather with a healthy sand tone that probably came from his Quidditch matches.

“How is it that you’re here?” Draco raised a questioning eyebrow in return. “It’s baffling enough that you live here in Cardiff despite playing for the Magpies who are a Scottish team, but you’re still here for internationals. Why?” Hermione elaborated as she applied an ointment to the scrape near his eye before reaching to an ice pack and murmured a cooling spell on it.

“I take it that you don’t read the sports section.” Draco answered as he accepted the cold compress and placed it over his chin. She shook her head and began disinfecting a suture needle. “I play for the Welsh Quidditch national team.”

“As much as I’d like to ask you to elaborate, I am going to ask you to shut up now so that I don’t stab you with this needle.”

“And wouldn’t you like to have the excuse to do so.” He impishly countered.

Hermione smirked. “Very much. Belt up, Malfoy.” She quickly replied as she picked up her wand and casted a numbing spell. A spark of sheer white appeared and quickly faded from the edge of her wand. Satisfied, Hermione hovered closer and concentrated on the terribly deep gash at Draco’s lip. She would have cringed at the sight if it wasn’t for her years of Healer training. _Episkey_ was an option but considering the intensity of how she could almost see the facial artery, she decided on the traditional healing method instead. It took her only two minutes to complete the sutures with neat threading and almost indiscernible knots. When she was done, she took hold of a bandage and applied a light grey cream over one side. She then took a strip of surgical tape and used it to hold the ready bandage to Draco’s lips.

“Give it an hour and you should be just fine with that. That scuffed patch under your eye will heal in another five minutes with the hasty-heal ointment, and the bruise of yours – well, after that cold compress, I will give you a potion to get it down in the next half an hour.” Hermione fixed a discerning gaze over Draco. “I could use a spell but that’s only for immediate heals when a bruise is only beginning to appear. Judging by your appearance, you’ve gone at least an hour with that contusion.”

She waved her wand around his face and neck for a diagnosis. The edge of her wand sparked a familiar faint sage green and Hermione smiled in approval. “Get some rest, Malfoy.” She said as she began packing her medical kit.

“Thanks.” A low murmur escaped the edges of Draco’s lips and she almost smiled at his expression of gratitude. Instead, Hermione simply nodded in acknowledgement.

The brunette witch proceeded to return her kit to the counter and when she turned around, she noticed that Draco already had his eyes closed and his breathing had evened out. Guessing that sleep was lulling him in, she quietly threaded across the wooden flooring to the door and turned the sign around to indicate the bookshop was closed for the day. She dimmed the lights and left for the kitchen.

There was a swirl of questions in her head but deciding that they could wait till he was awake, Hermione started prepping for dinner. It was almost half past eight and she was famished. The last meal she had was at noon and it was only a bowl of leftover beef stew and two slices of fresh bread from the bakery down the street. She briefly wondered if she should include the interloper’s share for dinner.

Hermione shrugged to herself. ‘ _If he doesn’t want to eat, I could have second portions and probably enough leftover to heat up for lunch tomorrow._ ’

Though she wasn’t much of a chef, her dinner was by all means rather decent with pumpkin soup and sausage bake, while dessert consisted of the extra chocolate candy barks from her window decoration.

By the time she brought the bowls and plates of food out, and conjured a small folded table to the middle, Draco stirred awake as if lured to consciousness by the scent of dinner. Without a word, she purposefully handed him a vial of violet liquid potion for his bruise and removed the bandage on his lip. She pulled out her wand from the pocket of her jeans and said another quick incantation. The threads from the sutures easily came undone within seconds.

“You can talk now – if you want to.” She casually pointed out. “And I made dinner. Nothing fancy but it’s edible and I promise, I didn’t include purgatives in your share.” Her last words were accompanied by a wry smile.

Draco rolled his eyes. “I’ll take my chances, Granger.”

“Good.” She handed him a pair of spoon and fork. “So, Wales?” She conversationally began while tucking her socks-clad feet under her and pulling her own bowl of soup closer to her.

Hermione couldn’t decide if she wanted to ask why he was here in the bookshop in the middle of the week, or how did he ended up being a professional Quidditch player, or where his mother was if he was living here and how was she doing. So she chose the one that seemed to be a less gauche option.

“It’s a constituent of the UK. Southwest of Great Britain with a splendid coastline.” The Seeker deadpanned.

Hermione resisted the urge to hurl her bowl of pumpkin soup at him. “I know that, you prat. I meant you being part of its Quidditch national team.”

A roguish expression crossed his features and she knew that he was only at the start of his enjoyment in getting her peeved. “I was born here. Well, more of in the county borough, The Vale.” Draco explained as he picked at the plate of sausage bake. “My father had an estate there and Mother had been with him during one of his visits. She was close to her delivery date and apparently I arrived sooner than they expected. So that gives me the liberty to choose between playing for Wales or England.”

“I had assumed that all Malfoys were born and bred in the Wiltshire manor.”

“I’m not like _all_ Malfoys.” Draco dryly answered. His expression was blasé but she knew it was a hint to the dissatisfaction he had of her assumptions of him from the weekend. He poked into a sausage and was about to take a bite when she suddenly spoke up.

“I’m sorry. I know I had you miffed when I said what I had last Saturday.”

Draco looked at her in the eye and she willed herself not to squirm under the piercing grey eyes. He nodded once and returned his attention to his plate. “Call it even. You did heal my injuries after all.”

“That was still rather dim though. The Quidditch portion, I mean.” Hermione couldn’t resist the verbal jab.

“I said I was distracted.” Draco retorted, looking up. “Are you questioning my mental aptitude?”

“More of your reflex actually.”

He scowled. “I’m not slow.”

“So says the one who greeted a Bludger in the face.” Hermione huffed before taking another mouthful of soup.

“Let me take you for a Quidditch match one day, and we’ll see how you fare.”

“I am atrocious with brooms.”

“You defy the stereotype of a witch then.”

She snorted at his wisecrack. “I like to attempt to break the glass ceiling.” She quipped with a caustic smile.

“With that vertically-challenged stature of yours?” He wickedly grinned.

A look of mock resentment appeared. “I’ll have you know that I am at _least_ a five feet five.”

“And I’m still a good four, almost five, inches taller.”

His haughty satisfaction earned him a narrowed gaze from Hermione. “You do know that you are supposed to measure without those tall insoles in your shoes, don’t you?”

“That is offensive, Granger.” She laughed at his aggravated answer. “I do not _need_ tall insoles.” A crooked smile appeared at Hermione’s lips to let him know she was teasing. Draco harrumphed. “What were you doing with those chocolates anyway?” He pointed his fork to the bay window.

“Oh.” Hermione glanced over her shoulder and grinned at the sight of the display. “That’s my attempt at a themed-window display.”

“Chocolates.” Draco’s eyebrows knitted together as if trying to sort the association. “Your display is of books that are somehow related to chocolates, and you chose chocolates because – it’s close to Halloween, hence the association to the confection?”

Her grin widened. “Five points to Slytherin.”

“That deserved ten points with the elusive connection between a book display and chocolates.” Draco replied, smirking. “And you plan on changing the theme often?”

“Probably every week.” Hermione stood up and went to one of the alcoves. She returned with her planner in hand and with a quick flick of the pages, she revealed her list to wizard. “The next would be on ghosts and ghouls. Cemeteries and the walking dead.”

Draco brushed his hands as if for invisible crumbs before taking the bound material from Hermione. “I’ve got a book suggestion that would match that. The Graveyard Book.” Hermione’s eyes widened in surprise. “What?” Draco asked, noticing her gaping look and suddenly feeling self-conscious.

“That was released just two weeks ago.” Hermione tentatively said. “And it’s by a Muggle author.”

He gave a careless shrug. “Doesn’t stop it from being a brilliant fiction.” He looked down at her list and read it aloud. “The Woman Warrior, Beloved – both by Muggle authors, I see. Ghastly Griss’ Ghoulish Gory, Coming Through; An Autobiography by A Centurion Ghost, I See You Seeing Me Seeing You, and Tombstones of War.”

“What do you think of them?”

“Ghastly Griss is bleeding funny. Beloved gives one the terrible chills, almost close to The Shining. The Woman Warrior is an intriguing cultural introduction and eloquently beautiful to form a meaning about self-identity.” Draco ticked off the list. “I have yet to read Tombstones of War though I have came across it, and I See You Seeing Me Seeing You is much more of a creepy romantic delusion than the thriller paranormal it claims to be.”

“You are surprisingly rather well-read, Malfoy.”

“In case you’re wondering, I _can_ read.” He replied with a crinkle of his nose. “And not everyone has to be a swot to enjoy reading.”

“Call me a swot again and I will not hesitate to throw this book at your head.” She threateningly said, holding up a copy of The Graveyard Book which she had been reading the night before and left it at the coffee table beside the armchairs.

“I merely implied. You decidedly took offense.”

Draco was clearly taking immense pleasure in ruffling her feathers, but she wasn’t offended at all. Instead, Hermione was inwardly appreciative of his competence to keep up the banter. He was an acerbic droll, and one that also seemed rather intellectual. She briefly recalled that his grades were close to hers each year when they were in school.

Hermione prompted in curiosity, “What genre is your favourite then?”

Draco took a moment to reply as if mulling his answer in his head. “Fantasy fiction most likely, though I hardly take an effort to get those books. I enjoy reading them but I don’t purchase them on purpose.” He looked around the bookshop once. “Historical fiction intrigues me as well.”

“Any in particular?”

“None. I hardly favour any author.” His fingers absently trailed the pages of her planner.

“That’s strange.” Hermione commented. Her eyebrows furrowed a little. “Surely there would be one that you’d always turn to for some reading comfort, or that you’d be eager to know if she or he has something new released.”

Draco shrugged. “There’s an obscene amount of books in this world, Granger. It doesn’t seem fair to play favourites which would inevitably narrow my reading choices. Not having a particular favourite allows me to pick up any book with as much enthusiasm I would have for the one before.”

His train of thought was not something Hermione had ever considered before, and it was just as valid too. As she took a bite of a potato, she briefly wondered on how many books she may have missed out for having a partiality to her choice authors.

“I like knowing that I am not limiting myself to preconceived selections or expectations.” Draco continued, as if not noticing Hermione being lost in her thoughts. He took another glance at her planner before closing it and placing it onto the coffee table. “Wasn’t there a Muggle saying, don’t judge a book by its cover?”

“Well, yes. We ought to not prejudge the worth of something by its outward appearance alone.” Hermione said. She paused and intently looked at Draco. A rosy hue appeared at her cheeks as she recalled a memory. “Which was what I had done two weekends ago.” She winced and Draco smirked. “But in my defence, you weren’t particularly amicable when we were in Hogwarts.”

“I was a fucking twat, I know.”

His admission came off as a surprise to Hermione. “That would be an _almost_ apt description.”

“How would you’ve termed it then?” Draco’s hands returned to his fork.

“Less crude, but similar in significance.” She honestly said. “I would prefer an ostentatious prejudiced braggadocio.”

Draco sharply exhaled. His fork pierced right through a sausage, almost grudgingly. “I have never – never really apologised to you, have I?”

Hermione pursed her lips. She still remembered the brief conversation they exchanged at his hearing. He had only said he was indebted to her and Harry’s testimony – both which were in favour of him, and how he regretted what he had done.

The Wizengamot had sentenced Draco to a year of mind healing sessions while being under strict house arrest. Upon completion of the year, he was required to contribute to the Wizarding society for the following 12 months in any manner of his choice but in means that would be acceptable to the Wizengamot. Hermione had heard that he chose to sell his father’s estates and channelled them into donations to various organisations, including Hogwarts. He also apparently volunteered as a teaching assistant for Charms in Hogwarts; she learned of this from Professor McGonagall over tea one afternoon when she had been visiting the Headmistress. After that however, Draco was notably absent from England for the following few years. Admittedly, she had hardly bothered to keep up with any news relating to him either.

“I know it’s terribly delayed, but for what it’s worth now – I’m sorry.” Draco offered, lifting his gaze and frankly meeting her eyes despite the shame he was feeling. “I was a bleeding bully and you didn’t deserve to be subjected to that.”

“You were –” Hermione paused, quickly formulating her thoughts into coherence, “terrified and misled. You didn’t get to choose who you would want to be, and everything that was shown to you was tainted with bigotry and dogmatism. It wasn’t really your fault, Malfoy.”

“Now that’s too kind, Granger.” He dryly said. “I am sure I deserve worse.”

She shook her head. “Honestly, I reckon the blame is not yours to shoulder alone.”

“I was selfish and callous. And I allowed envy and hatred to consume me while I compartmentalised whatever inch of compassion I ever had.”

The fork in Hermione’s hand absently twirled around. A brief pause filled the air before she spoke up again, “Why did you choose that path?”

Draco picked up a potato from the plate and stared hard at it. It was a distraction so he didn’t have to look at her and Hermione knew it. His gaze narrowed. “Selfishness.”

“To keep your parents alive?”

Draco snorted. He returned the potato to the plate and picked at the onions instead. “Partial. It was a combination of everything.” His fork stabbed at a slice of the vegetable. “For the Malfoy pride and name, for a deluded sense of entitlement, for my ego, and for me – I didn’t want to die.” He emitted a dry, contemptuous chuckle. “I was scared to die. An absolute wimp, if you will. I would have done anything just to save my own skin. It’s completely shameless.”

“I wouldn’t want to die at sixteen either.” Hermione quietly offered.

“No, but to avoid that, you were off trying to save the world at sixteen while I was doing my damndest to burn it down.”

“Seventeen.”

“What?”

“I’m a year ahead. 1979.” She explained when Draco finally looked to her again, distracted from his vengeful self-deprecating attempts with the vegetables on his plate.

“Regardless. At that age, I wasn’t the most educated git when it came to tolerance and equality.”

“You still blame yourself for all that has happened.” Hermione observed.

“I fucking killed Dumbledore.” Draco seethed. “What do _you_ reckon?”

She shook her head. “You didn’t. Yes, you did the plotting and you attempted, but in the end – you didn’t do it. You lowered your wand, you _knew_ it was wrong. _You_ chose not to kill him. That’s conscience.”

“What I did sparked off the start of the Second Wizarding War. The amalgamation of my cowardly actions was the catalyst.”

It wasn’t difficult to notice how afflicted by shame and self-reproach that Draco Malfoy actually was. He was still haunted by his past and the ghosts of his actions seemed to have never left the wizard. Hermione realised he had yet to forgive himself and it was something that she closely identified with. Be it from the Light or the Dark, there were lives that were lost forever to the war.

The brown-haired witch had briefly considered entering the Ministry at Kingsley Shacklebolt’s invite, but while she helped with the initial drafts of the new legislations and restructures; Hermione knew that she had her own set of predilections ingrained within her. After all, she had been schooled in the opinion that there was only the Light and the Dark, there was no in between. Being a Healer however, meant that regardless of who was brought in for medical assistance, she was obligated to help without discrimination.

“Don’t do that to yourself. What you did may have contributed to it, but we all had a hand in it too. It started from the generation before us and instead of attempting to understand with tolerance and education, we pushed both ends to further extremes. Even in Hogwarts, we allowed ourselves to believe that the Slytherins were supporters of the Dark Arts, that Gryffindors would always align with the Light, we chose to believe in suspicion and disgust, and allowed partiality to happen.” Hermione pointed out. “Partiality existed and because of that, we were affirmed of our preconceived notions about one another. What if we didn’t have Houses? What if Muggle Studies were just Cultural Studies in which we learned of both sides and everyone else?”

“Would that have made a difference?”

A shrug revealed itself. “Perhaps. I don’t know.” Hermione admitted. “But you understand now, don’t you? You saw the wrongs and what made the rights, and you are trying. So don’t be harsh on yourself, Malfoy. You deserve forgiveness, at least from yourself.”

She stalled for a moment, wondering if she should continue. Draco’s gaze was still on her, his expression stoic though his jaw looked tight yet his lips made no indication of a need to comment on her words.

“The war has changed all of us.” She looked at her hands for a moment and remembered the blood that was spilled. She recalled the words of Mrs. Warrington on her self-coping mechanism, and looked back up to meet Draco’s grey eyes. “Including me. I became more of a sceptic, and defensive with my own feelings.”

Poignancy filled the space between them. It was almost cutting in the way she had said it, with a tinge of bitterness. She had her own share of nightmares that still haunt her. Steel grey eyes held her own brown orbs and she briefly wondered if he was using Legilimency on her. Feeling self-conscious, she compartmentalised her own hidden feelings though she fearlessly kept their eye contact. Draco stared at her for a few more seconds, and she noticed how his eyes held a glint of prudence and solicitude.

“You’re still one magnanimous witch.” He finally said.

“That’s a big word.” She teased, returning the atmosphere to a lighter one as she noticed how it had taken a sombre tone of the past. Inwardly, she was stunned by Draco’s preferred adjective to describe her with. It was an unexpected remark that brought on a flicker of appreciation in her heart.

“Four syllables and that’s a big word?”

“Throw me an eight and I’ll be utterly impressed.”

“I see this conversation is taking the _intellectualisation_ note.” Mirth bubbled from Hermione’s lips at his emphasised word and Draco even cracked a small smile. Their gazes stayed on each other for a moment before Draco shifted his line of vision back to her planner and the curve of his lips curled into a small smirk. It wasn’t malicious; rather, it was mostly amused and teasing. “Have I ever made you cry though?”

She snorted. “I was stubborn enough to ensure I would never cry because of you.”

“Ever the strong-willed and audacious Gryffindor.” His hand reached up to his face and gave it a quick stroke. “And you have a wicked right hook.”

Hermione couldn’t resist a grin. “Third year.” She recalled. “That was the first time I ever assaulted anyone.”

“I hate to think of the others that came after me. You are bleeding terrifying when you want to be.” He shuddered. “The combination of an enraged Granger and a ready wand is not one I’d enjoy an encounter with.”

“Well, Harry is equally as apprehensive about that.” Hermione sheepishly admitted.

“The boy who lived and defeated a deranged homicidal monster is just as afraid of you?” Draco mirthfully said.

“I have a reputation it seems.” She jested as she stretched her arms above her head. “Could I offer you a cup of coffee, or tea?” The alternative came as an afterthought when she noticed the frown on Draco’s face at the first option. “Not a coffee person, I take it?”

“Not an enthusiast of the foul bitterness.”

“And that is why we have sugar cubes. I’m sure you may have came across those little white things made up of sweet soluble carbohydrates that are lightly steamed and pressed together in a block shape, and measures about three-fourths of a teaspoon?”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m not an ignorant sod, Granger.”

Hermione grinned and stood up. “English tea for the English gentleman then?” She said with a deliberate gesture of her hand.

“Honorary Welsh.” He corrected her as he stood up and gathered their plates and bowls.

“What are you doing?”

“I believe this is called tidying up after oneself.” Draco answered. “Kitchen?”

“No, plebeians like me prefer to wash them by the river.”

“Very funny. I’m bleeding laughing.” Draco expressionlessly said. “You should be a stand-up comedian, Granger.”

“I’m surprise you are familiar with the Muggle occupation.”

“I take pleasure in getting to know the muppets of the Muggle world.”

Hermione bit her lower lip to keep her mirth at bay. She didn’t want him to think that she was enjoying too much of his facetious remarks. Draco walked to the kitchen and she followed behind; she wasn’t surprise that he was well-acquainted with the interior of the bookshop. After all, if he was close enough to Mrs. Warrington and her husband to call them by their first names, surely he would have been to the bookshop plenty of times to know its every nook and cranny. What surprised her however was when he rolled up his sleeves, let the tap run, and began soaping up the dishes.

“You really don’t have to do that. I can wash them on my own.”

“Think of this as compensation for dinner.”

“I should have made a bigger mess of the kitchen if I knew you were going to wash up after me.” Hermione smirked.

“Of all the surprises I’d come across – I’ve never thought of you as a freeloader, Granger.” Draco coolly replied, eyeing her with a raised eyebrow. “Or a skiver.”

“I am _not_ a skiver.” She huffed.

The recognisable wayward smile of his appeared. “You’re right. Certainly not a skiver with all that books that you frequently bury your nose in back in Hogwarts just so you could raise your hand in every single class.”

“It was not every single class.”

“Try recalling one that you didn’t.” He challenged.

Hermione wordlessly disputed by throwing the dish towel at his head. Draco let out a surprised yelp before letting out a low growl and retaliated with a flick of the soapy waters in her direction.

“Malfoy!”

“I understand that plebeians such as you are prone to throwing things around but next time, just hand me the towel like a regular, decent person, will you?” She scowled at his usage of her own dosage of sarcasm against her. Draco shot her a triumphant look.

“I cannot believe that you are still holding it against me.”

“The fact that you bested me in nearly every single class we had in almost every single school year? Yes.”

“You did always come in second.” Hermione shrewdly smiled. “I almost felt sorry for you.”

“Almost.” Draco snorted at the term. “You took absolute delight in trouncing me in our classes.”

“I was hoping to annihilate you actually. Your grades came in too close for comfort. Especially in fifth year’s Potions, and sixth year’s Charms.” She frowned at the memory, as if slightly disconcerted by the thought of coming in second.

“I reckon first year’s Flying was my only consolation.”

“I gave that one to you out of compassion.”

“Rubbish. You were horrible in that one.” Draco sniggered as he started drying off the plates and bowls.

“The broom refused to cooperate with me.”

“I quote – I am atrocious with brooms.”

“You’re rather capable of remembering frivolous things.”

“It was just over an hour ago. It’s not too hard to remember.”

“I suppose you are going to keep using it against me, aren’t you?”

“I will try my best to.” Draco smugly answered. He dried his hands on a clean tea towel and accepted the mug of tea that Hermione held out.

“How’s your face?”

“Why do you ask?”

Hermione shrugged. “Just wondering if you would like to be reacquainted with my fist.” Draco visibly paled for a moment and Hermione almost laughed out loud. “On a serious note though, how _is_ your face? Your bruise has vanished and the scrape has healed, that much I can see. And judging by your incessant verbal jabs, your lips are functional. But I still need to know if you are feeling better or if you are feeling any after-effects.”

“Much better. I’m not seeing double or feeling faint.”

“Not hearing any voices in your head?” She quipped.

“I’ve not gone barmy from a Bludger hit if that’s what you’re implying, Granger.”

“Simply checking.” Hermione innocently replied and took a sip from her own mug of tea. She turned around to leave the kitchen and heard his footsteps following behind.

They settled back into the armchairs and Hermione picked up her planner. She browsed through the pages and settled on her list of themes for the window display while Draco picked up her copy of The Graveyard Book and flipped through it with random pauses, as if picking out pages that struck his interest. The former Gryffindor witch knew she could pretend that she was tired and wanted to turn in just so he would leave – but she wasn’t ready to dismiss his presence yet. Oddly, having a familiar face in the bookshop was reassuring and calming, even if it was a childhood nemesis.

A strangely tranquil silence filled the air between them as they sipped their tea while being occupied in their respective activity. The minutes ticked slowly into half past eleven and when Hermione realised she had finished her tea, Draco was already asleep with his head propped by a curled hand.

Understanding that a 31-hour Quidditch match would be strenuous on anyone, Hermione decided against waking him up. She was however amused that Draco seemed comfortable enough to fall asleep in her presence and in a bookshop no less. Hermione knew personally she would have preferred to sleep in her own bed after a gruelling day and though she had yet to discover his unexpected visit, she quietly got up from her armchair and went to the back where some clean blankets and pillows were kept. Upon her return to Draco’s side, she carefully draped the blanket over the wizard’s sleeping figure. A pillow was placed by the armchair in case he woke up in the middle of the night with a cramp in the neck.

Hermione then left for kitchen to rinse out the empty mugs before heading to the bathroom for her night routine.  When she returned, Draco was still soundly asleep. She debated for a moment if she should just wake him up and get him to leave for home, but the little voice within didn’t have much of an inclination to rouse the clearly exhausted Quidditch Seeker.  She picked up her own throw blanket from Harry and Ron, and curled back into her own armchair with her pillow fluffed and ready.

It wasn’t until slightly after seven in the morning that Hermione finally stirred. The sun was peeking in through the windows and there was a soft glow casted around the room. A yawn escaped the witch as she stretched. In her sleepy stupor, Hermione blinked twice as her vision took in the armchair where Draco had slept the night before. It was empty safe for her book, a folded blanket, and a pillow, seated atop the seat.

She looked around just to be sure he had actually left the bookshop before making her way over to the armchair to pick up the book. A small bit of parchment that was stuck between the first few pages caught her attention, inducing her to open the book.

Her eyes widened as she discerned of the writings between the margins on the pages she had turned to.

“Merlin! Did he _bloody_ well wrote in my book?” Hermione exclaimed aloud. Parchment forgotten, a curse word was about to spill from her lips when her mind quickly comprehended the words on the papers.

They were Draco’s notes about selected passages and what appeared to be his thoughts about the plotline. She flipped the pages and discovered a few more written notes of his; some held etymologies while others carried an alternative direction he would have phrased a scene, and a few shared his personal reflections. Hermione found herself reading them with utmost curiosity and fascination, so much that an hour quickly passed her by and when she finally realised the time, she had jumped up from the armchair to get ready for the day.

The forgotten parchment fluttered onto the floor and caught her eye. She picked it up and realised it was a note from Draco.

‘ _Was about to wake you to inform that I am leaving but I don’t want to face your wrath even if your wand is nowhere near you. It’s too early to deal with an irate Gryffindor know-it-all. – D.M._ ’

‘ _Right, and writing in my book without my explicit permission is not going to invoke my wrath._ ’ Hermione thought with a scowl. “That foul, loathsome cockroach.” She grumbled.


	4. Chapter 4

As Wednesday morning beckoned, Hermione unlocked the doors of Scripts and Scribbles. She stepped out into the bustling morning and took a breath of fresh air. Smiling to herself as she observed the mass of people going about with the start of their day, she leaned by the doorway while nursing a cup of tea. From the corner of her eye, the glass window display caught her attention and she wondered if she should change the decorations earlier than she had planned.

The first theme had caught the attention of the many passersby and intrigue by the display; they had entered and enquired about the books by the window. Hermione had gladly summarised each book and almost each visitor left with a book or two right after. One of the regulars, a witch in her early 40s with a pet salamander, Ms. Jenkins-Smith, had even suggested a few themes for Hermione to consider – and the younger witch was more than pleased to promise that she would look into them with the right books to accompany the theme. Both Ron and Harry had visited on Sunday and suggested a Quidditch theme, much to Hermione’s amused exasperation at the obvious choice of her best friends.

Thinking about Quidditch brought her thoughts to a particular Welsh national player, but she shook her head as if attempting to return her train of thought. She had wanted to send an owl to check if his injuries were completely healed but it was a discomforting resemblance to a feeble attempt of communication when really, she knew her healing skills were more than adequate to have ensured a full recovery by the following morning, so she didn’t.

Stepping back in to her bookshop, Hermione set about in tidying up the place. She picked up the books that were left by the alcoves, re-shelved the ones that customers had changed their minds on at the last minute, and examined the inventory in consideration of any new books she should add.

It wasn’t long before she soon heard the doors opening, a familiar tinkle of the calliope cheerfully signifying a visitor.

“Hello! Welcome to Scripts and Scribbles.”

“Hermione?”

She poked her head around one of the shelves. “Mr. Djimon, good morning!”

A tall, dark-skinned man with one the most jovial grins that Hermione has ever came across, waved to her from the door. “Good morning, Hermione.” He greeted as he tugged at the navy blue scarf around his neck, letting its ends fall over his khaki-coloured coat. “Weather’s getting tad chilly, yeah?”

“Rather much so. I see you’re prepped for the cold.” She smiled and walked over. “How can I be of assistance today?”

“I am looking for a book of essays by a Muggle author in the name of Sedaris.”

Hermione grinned. “Plenty of his works here. Is there a particular title you are seeking?”

“Any. I came across him while looking up books by Tom Sharpe.”

“I reckon you’d enjoy Sedaris’ works. They contain such satirical wit on his days and encounters. May I recommend you two of my favourites of his?”

The wizard, one of the regulars whom Mr. Warrington had shared about, gave a pleasant nod. “If you don’t mind, that would be helpful.”

Hermione beamed and led the man to one of the shelves located at the second floor of the shop. They crossed a few sections, including one that winded into a little lair of potions with faint bubbling sounds from little pots and cauldrons in the corners of the shelves for the magical apothecary section, before heading into a simple one that had a single open wall coloured in white mint and with block prints of random words and small calligraphy of quotes. The shelves creaked as they moved around from the bottom to her eye-level as she stepped in and called out for the name of the author she was looking for. She easily located the books and provided them both to the regular, readily sharing her thoughts on both books.

“Have you always been a bibliophile, Hermione?” The man’s expression was decidedly amused by her enthusiasm.

A slightly nervous laugh escaped her as they headed downstairs again. “I’ve always loved inhaling the scent of books, if that’s an indicator to my fixation with them.”

The man who looked to be in his late 20s chuckled. “Well, I reckon it’s a healthy habit, so as long as you don’t start slobbering over them because that would be ghastly.”

“I wouldn’t. At least I hope not.” She grinned. “Would these be all that you need, Mr. Djimon?”

“Please call me Michael, anyone who loves a good satire as much I do deserve to be on first name basis with me. And yes, these would be all. Perhaps I’ll be back by the end of the week for the other titles.” 

“You haven’t read them yet. How could you be so sure that you’d enjoy these enough to come back for the rest?”

“I’ll take the word of a habitual book-sniffer anytime.” He winked, and Hermione snorted a laugh.

“Thank you, Michael.” She said, smiling as she tested the name. “I’ll just ring up the purchase for you. Do you need a bag for that?”

“My satchel will be fine for these.” Michael said as he patted the bag with its strap slung over his shoulder. He handed her a few Galleons and just as she was about to hand the books over, the door was pushed open again with an inviting chime.

Hermione looked to the door with a smile but her standard greeting halted at her lips when she saw who it was. The newcomer, dressed in Muggle clothes this time, strolled up to the counter with a casual glance at the books before a smug lilt of his lips appeared.

“Self-deprecating humour?”

Hermione narrowed her gaze, recognising the baiting tone. “And what is wrong with that?”

“Well for someone who fancies such dreary essays that are in actuality autobiographies of the writer’s days that are fondly exaggerated and fastidiously crafted, seems to be –” Draco paused and lifted his gaze to Michael, “in search of some form of droll stimulation that is probably missing in their own days?”

“Malfoy.” Hermione chided. She turned to Michael. “I’m sorry for the prat. He is one of our regulars but a highly pompous one at that.”

“Merely an articulate and opinionated regular, Granger.” Draco added.

Michael warmly smiled as he accepted the books and slipped them in to his bag. “No offense taken, not to worry. I take it that you are still getting used to this snarky regular of yours, Hermione?”

The Quidditch Seeker raised an eyebrow. “And what brings you to the thought that we are not already familiar with each other?”

“For starters, you’re both on last name basis.” Michael evenly pointed out. “And secondly, Hermione had a pinched expression the moment she noticed it was you who stepped in. Which brings one to the deduction that your presence, while tolerated, is not exactly fond of either.”

A flash of annoyance appeared in Draco’s grey orbs and Hermione bit her lower lip in an effort to keep her mirth at bay.

“I shall see you again soon, Hermione. Likely on Friday and maybe this time, we could have a cup of coffee to discuss Sedaris’ works?”

“That would be nice.” Hermione amicably agreed. “Have a great day, Michael.”

“Likewise.” The wizard gave Draco a quick acknowledging nod goodbye that came laced with a smirk of his own before stepping around the latter and left.

“What was _that_ all about, Malfoy?” Hermione abruptly whirled her attention onto the platinum-blond haired wizard.

“He was taking an unnecessary long time just to get those Muggle books.”

She frowned. “And how would you know that?”

“I saw him from the outside and I waited for a bit before coming in.”

“You were lurking?”

Draco huffed as he leaned his frame against the counter. “I prefer the term waiting.”

“Michael is a regular, and very decent one at that. I don’t appreciate you coming in here and attempting your injudicious comments on the customers.”

“I’m sure you’d be familiar with the words of Orwell. There are always plenty of not quite certifiable lunatics walking the streets, and they tend to gravitate towards bookshops, because a bookshop is one of the few places where you can hang about for a long time without spending any money.” He quoted, with a disarming wink.

“He bought _two_ books.” She hissed in reply.

“To obscure the lunacy then.”

Hermione took a deep breath and exhaled, recollecting her patience. “What do you want, Malfoy?”

Before he could answer her, the door opened again to reveal two customers; a young mother and her son.

Hermione threw a glare in Draco’s direction before she shifted her attention to the newcomers. “Welcome to Scripts and Scribbles. How can I assist you?”

“We are just hoping to browse around. Do you have a children’s wizarding picture books section?”

“Certainly. Just walk on straight and at the second alcove, turn to your left and follow the path into a section that leads to a small room. You’ll recognise it immediately with the whimsical caricatures and colourful doodles on the floor.

“Thank you.”

Draco’s lips turned up a roguish look as he silently gestured with his head in the direction of the pair. He mouthed the word “lunatic”.

“Stop it.” Hermione quickly shushed him. A chuckle, accompanied by a mischievous glint in his eyes, escaped Draco. “Feel free to let me know if you need any assistance.” She called out to the young mother. As soon as they were out of sight, her sharp gaze returned to the wizard before her. “I have yet to chew you out for writing in my book.”

“I thought you’d appreciate the notes.”

“I do, but that is not the point.” Hermione reached under the counter for her copy of The Graveyard Book, the very one that Draco had written in. “The point is that you wrote in a book. Who _does_ that?”

“Clearly I do.” Draco amusedly answered.

“If you ever, ever do that again to any one of my books, I will not hesitate to hex you.” She threatened. “Books are meant to be read, and to be treasured without being defaced.”

“I suppose if I ever dog-eared a page in a book, you would feed me to a Hippogriff?”

“Yes. That’s what bookmarks are for in case you didn’t know. They help one find and return to a page in a book without having to resort to such Neanderthal ways of folding the corners of a page.”

Draco guffawed. “You are awfully strange, Granger. Has anyone ever told you that you have a borderline creepy obsession with books?”

Hermione reached for the bridge of her nose and lightly pinched it. “You will be enlightening me, I presume.”

“That’s correct.” Draco gleefully replied. “You are at the frontier of disturbing fascination for printed materials. That said however,” he paused and dug into the satchel that she had just noticed he had with him, “here – another defaced book as you had so eloquently put it.” He said as he pushed a book over to her.

Hermione looked down and noticed it was a copy of The Kite Runner. Surprised, her gaze jerked back to meet Draco’s. “You’ve read this too?” Without waiting for an answer, she flipped the book open and once again, Draco’s handwriting filled the margins with words of his own. “How did you know I had this in my reading list?”

He shrugged. “It was in your planner.”

She inspected one of his notes on the protagonist of the story and found herself unexpectedly savouring his consideration of the character’s conflicted emotions. Draco left the counter and strolled to one of the shelves nearby, leaving her to her examination of his notes. Hermione flipped the pages quickly enough, discovering each piece of thought nugget of the former Slytherin. She couldn’t help but found herself in quiet awe by his thought process and acumen, despite her vexation with him for scribbling in yet another book.

It took her another ten minutes of looking through before she finally placed the copy of historical fiction down. She looked up and was greeted by the visage of Draco settling in by one the alcoves, her favourite, with a book in his hands. A quick flash of grimace crossed his features as he sat down, but it quickly disappeared within the next second as his usual detached expression returned. Sensing something amiss, Hermione made her way over to the alcove.

“What happened to you, Malfoy?”

Draco’s attention removed itself from the book he had to meet her discerning look. Unperturbed, he responded, “I knocked into one of the hoops during our international against Japan yesterday.”

Hermione’s eyebrows furrowed. “Which part exactly?”

“Reasonably, one would think of The Welsh Quidditch National Stadium that we played in? In Carmarthenshire?”

“I didn’t mean the location of the match.” She rolled her eyes and Draco emitted a subdued chuckle. “I meant which body part of yours that crashed against the goal hoop?”

“My ribs. Likely bruised, or broken, I reckon. And I’ve dislocated my left shoulder.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “How did you manage that?”

“It was a windy match we’ve had. I flew too fast, mistimed my momentum, and had to dodge the other team’s Chaser who seemed to have lost her grip on the broom as well. Before I knew it, I was curled around the pole of the hoop and fell off my broom.”

“Honestly?” Hermione said with disbelief. “And you are only telling me this _now_?”

“I wasn’t aware that I should inform you of every fall that I take in my matches. Not to mention that would be bruising to my ego as well.”

She turned her nose up in irritation. “Get up. And take off that jacket and shirt of yours.” She instructed while reaching for her wand tucked in the back pocket of her cream-coloured chinos. She was half-expecting another one of his haughty remarks tinged with an innuendo, but he said nothing of the sort and simply divested his top clothing. “Has your medic team taken a look at you?”

“I waved them off and we played on. We won by the way, thanks for asking. Caught the Snitch at 160 to 170.”

“I really don’t care about the points or your match. You should have let them examined you and made a scan.” Hermione’s gaze immediately fixed itself to Draco’s well-defined body as she adeptly waved her wand, casting a mauve glow that turned white and back again. She didn’t fail to notice the faint scars across his body and she knew how he obtained them. Apology rose to her lips but she held it back as she knew it wasn’t something to be dragged up when he looked at her expectantly; it was a wordless dare for her to bring it up but she wasn’t in the mood to argue when she rather heal his injury instead.

“And your match was yesterday? That’s almost a good half day gone by without a Healer looking at it. You could have punctured a vessel, or damaged your internal organs, or worse, suffered from a collapsed lung. Did you not need to breathe? Have you even taken a potion for the pain? Honestly, someone of your age ought to know better and seek immediate medical help.” She continued berating. Placing her wand by the alcove, Hermione reached out with her bare hands for his rib cage.

Draco yelped in shock at the sudden touch of cold skin against his warm one. “Your hands are freezing!”

“Quit whinging.” She absently replied as she ran her hands down his skin, unhurriedly but rather methodically. “Tell me if it hurts when I place pressure on a part.”

“There.” Draco grimaced when she reached the middle.

“Would you mind taking a deep breath in?”

Draco did as she asked and bit his lower lip hard. She picked up her wand and casted another spell, this time, Draco felt a tepid prodding within him and it soon turned a placidly sedative effect. The edge of Hermione’s wand emitted faint steel blue sparks.  She continued with his shoulder, examining and tapping her wand against it – causing the Quidditch player to sink his teeth harder into his lower lip to keep from screaming in pain with the shift of the ligaments beneath his skin. Her wand sparked a faint hue of ivory for a few seconds.

“That should do it. Your shoulder will feel better in a few minutes after the cooling spell and there’s no nerve or blood vessel damage. You had a few hairline cracks on your ribs, but they are not severe and there’s no indicator of a pulmonary contusion.”

“Dare I say –”

“If your next words are how attractive it is when someone speaks medical, then I’d advise you to go to your bleeding medic team for said desirability.” The wizard snapped his mouth shut and his jaw tightened in visible disgruntlement. Hermione gave a knowing smirk. “If I had a Galleon for every time someone said that to me while I was in St. Mungo’s, I would have enough to purchase a flat of my own here in Cardiff.”

Draco rolled his eyes in response as he reached for the oxford blue shirt that has been tossed to the alcove. “You get easily shirty, don’t you?”

“Only when someone appears at my doorstep with injuries from his Quidditch matches.” Hermione dryly said. “You need to stop coming here each time you have an injury. If you are not going to trust your medical team, then St. Angus needs its share of patients to keep its lights on too.”

“They are absolute rubbish at treating Quidditch players.” He snorted, buttoning up his long-sleeved shirt. “They make the players wait because we are repeated typical cases as they so graciously refer us as.”

“I don’t suppose you could go to a Muggle hospital and be covered by the NHS to deal with your incessant tendency to inflict bodily harm on yourself.” She ranted under her breath as she turned around.

“What’s NHS?”

‘ _Good grief._ _Not only is he skilled in Occlumency, and probably Legilimency, he just had to have sharp auditory skills as well. I will stab myself with a fork if he is any use in Divination._ ’

“The National Health Service, a publicly funded national healthcare system for Muggles.” Hermione rattled off without looking backwards as she retreated to the bookshelf she was last at for her inventory check.

“The Muggles have provision of free treatment from the government?” Draco’s voice followed behind her.

“Yes, it does work out rather well in favour of the public for an established system of comprehensive treatment that’s accessible to all, but seems to gradually be a setback for the system itself with its funding and staffing needs.”

“This is funded by taxes I presume? What if the taxes were raised slightly higher?”

Hermione looked over her shoulder to see Draco who was now casually leaning against a bookshelf with his arms crossed in front of him. A small smile crept to her lips, “Taking further interest in Muggles?”

Draco shot her one of his infamous roguish half-smiles. “Merely curious.”

“Raising taxes would raise the public’s ire. Besides, the funding is affected by inflation as well.”

“So the people want quality treatment, and expect their government to give it to them, but have inadequate desire to contribute to it because some may, or may not, see these costs are superficially isolated from them until they find themselves requiring those services.”

“There are of course those who support a higher taxation if it means keeping the NHS in place.” Hermione explained, turning around again. “It’s never easy putting in place a new legislation or practice, but with some understanding and clarification, a proper debate on both sides to ensure equality and rationale, things could get sorted.”

“Always the optimist, Granger.”

“I try every now and then. It takes a lot of effort if you must know.”

“And we’re back to sarcasm.” Draco drawled. He stepped up to her and withdrew a book from the top shelf.

“If you write in that book, I _will_ break your ribs.” Hermione said without looking.

“Just so you could run your hands over my body one more time as you heal me?” The former Slytherin teased.

A rosy flush crept to her cheeks and she could feel her ears burning at the reminder that she had indeed seen him without a shirt on and the sight of his toned body was not an eyesore. She may not have cared much, but she wasn’t unreceptive to the appreciation of a fit physique.

“Better yet, I’ll be sure to puncture your lungs this time.” She sharply replied, recovering her composure. “Have you ever considered _not_ getting hurt while playing Quidditch?” She asked in an attempt to change the subject.

“It’s a contact sport, Granger. Which makes it rather difficult to come out of it all clean and neat.”

“Rather dangerous one at that.” She shuddered in the memory of all those times she watched Harry play back in Hogwarts. Ginny’s flying doesn’t placate her any less either; she had healed the younger witch’s injuries multiple times and one of them involved a limb broken in five different places.

“It’s my profession.” Draco absently answered as he skimmed the book in his hands.

“Why did you choose to go professional? You’ve never really came across as Quidditch-nutter like Oliver Wood was, or still is.”

“It pays well, I enjoy flying, and I reckon that I look bleeding good in a Quidditch uniform.”

The former Gryffindor picked a random paperback from the shelf in front of her and without warning she swiftly slapped Draco on the head with it.

To his credit, Draco didn’t even hiss in pain but he did aim a fierce glower her way as his free hand reached up to the spot she smacked him hard. “What. Was. That. For.” He punctuated his words with venom.

Hermione artlessly smiled. “Your head was inflating bigger than your shoulders could manage.” She dusted the paperback once and placed it back into its open space on the shelf.

Draco schooled his expression into smugness. “You have to admit that I don’t look bad in the Magpies’ black and white colours.”

“Don’t you have to play in the bright red of the Welsh team as well?” She retorted. “Doesn’t that clash with your hair, Malfoy?”

“I’m surprised, Granger. I didn’t know that you cared much about my style.”

“I don’t. Your hair is a jarring sight on its own.”

“As if yours isn’t a riot?” Hermione felt his fingers entwined with a lock of her hair as the words left his lips. “Honestly, Granger – have you ever thought of taming this mess?”

She swatted his fingers away but Draco persisted, catching another brown lock between his fingers before weaving it between his index and middle fingers.

“Do you really want to know why I decided to go professional for Quidditch?”

“I have a feeling you’ll tell me even if I said no.” She half-heartedly answered, deciding to leave his wandering fingers be, as she focused on the parchment that held the bookshop’s latest inventory.

“Because after leaving England for three years and realising that the wizarding world was still not ready to accept a Malfoy working beside them, I knew I could only resort to doing what I enjoy – flying.”

Hermione paused and shifted to Draco, noticing that he was still weaving his fingers through her hair. “What do you mean?”

“Do you know how frustrating it is to have rejection letters being owled to you on a daily basis for every single position you’ve applied for? The Ministry, Gringotts, Potions labs – and that’s just a few places.” His thumb and index finger brought a lock of hair close to his face as if examining it, but she knew Draco was merely trying to avoid looking at her. “I was the second best student in one of the most prestigious and respected wizarding institutions, and my grades were nothing short of Outstanding for seven N.E.W.T.s, but I was passed over time and time again because I am a Malfoy. A former _Death-Eater_.” Acrimony filled his words. Draco was practically seething.

Hermione deeply breathed in, biting her lower lip.

“Professor McGonagall offered to let me return to Hogwarts to teach Charms, but after that one year of being a teaching assistant and seeing how all those owls flooded McGonagall’s desk on a weekly basis – I knew I couldn’t subject her to that again.”

“She may have mentioned that to me.” Hermione slowly said with a lump in her throat. “There was – were, a few Howlers as well.” She continued with an unsettling displeasure rising within her. It was not directed at Draco however; rather, her indignation was at the parents of the Charms’ students who took Draco’s classes. It raised indignation within her back then, and now; that even after all that had happened with the war – prejudices still lingered, even if the tables had turned. Ignorance brought on invalid fear and unintelligent comments, Hermione knew it was a slow poison that would eventually corrupt one’s prudence.

Draco gave a short, derisive laugh. His fingers left her hair and he returned the book he had been holding to the shelves. “Those pissed tossers. I hated each one of those Howlers and would have taken great pleasure to cast _Incendio_ on them except McGonagall wouldn’t let me.”

“It’s not fair that they treated you that way. Not just those parents, but everyone else who didn’t gave you a second chance.” Hermione said with feeling. She was appalled and she knew it showed on her face.

“At least Quidditch did. Crawford didn’t give a damn who I was when I caught the Snitch in a record time.”

“You didn’t deserve to be shunned. What they did – that was a discrimination. It’s practically similar to the old ways where Muggleborns with magic were viewed as, well, lesser beings in the magical community.”

“At least I learned something from all of that.” He flashed an acerbic twist of his lips when she knitted her eyebrows with confusion. “I finally knew how you felt when I was being an arse to you and used the foul expression on you. It seemed only fair that I had a taste of the prejudice I had dished out in our younger years.”

She shook her head. Any animosity that she had ever felt for the wizard standing before her had begun to dissipate when the war ended and she chose to testify at his trial. With his heartfelt admission from nights before when he stumbled in Scripts and Scribbles with his almost disfigured facial features, she had completely forgiven him. The ill feelings no longer existed within her and were instead replaced by an understanding.

Placing her quill and parchment on the shelf, she gingerly reached a hand out to his arm. “You’re not vile, Malfoy. Not to me.” She softly said. “I forgive you.”

Their gazes held each other’s for few brief ticking seconds before Hermione averted her brown orbs for her parchment again. A few seconds passed between them in stillness.

“Thank you.” The words came out almost inaudibly but she heard them all the same. A release from the years of uncertain silence, self-disparaging thoughts and quiet regrets was filled in those two words of Draco’s.

The bookshop owner looked over her shoulder again at the former Slytherin and smiled – a genuine, beatific one that reached her eyes. Beyond them, the door jovially chimed again to signal visitors of the magical community. Hermione hurriedly stepped around with Draco and made her way out, disregarding the brief look he had in his eyes. The steel grey orbs had emitted indulgent warmth, and were almost revealing of a surreptitious weakness and quiet yearning. She brushed it off as a misplaced impression and greeted the wizard that just entered the bookshop.

Draco’s footsteps came up behind her but just as she thought he was going to trail after her, he turned for the alcove instead and settled himself with the book he had been reading just before she demanded to heal his fractured ribs. Hermione assisted her customer with his inquiry before taking a peek around the children’s corner to see the mother and child still reading on the floor, in the centre of the room, with a small pile of books beside the little boy. The charmed drawings on the floor were equally fascinated as they hovered close around the pair as the child read aloud to his mother and the curious creatures that one would find in an enchanted forest. She smiled at the sight and left them be.

Scripts and Scribbles was soon filled with more customers; two Muggle regulars popped by to say hello and one left an order for book, and yet Draco remained in her favourite alcove, reading. The few times she looked over to make sure he wasn’t holding a quill to write in her book, _again_ , he had caught her searching gaze and gave her one of his trademark smirks. She would then roll her eyes and look away.

Hermione expected Draco to leave when lunchtime came around; the Seeker hopped out of the alcove and strolled out of the bookshop without a word, and she assumed he was gone for the day until he showed up at the door again with bacon rolls and tea. She looked up from her conversation on potions-making with two elderly witches, and he simply quirked an eyebrow with the paper bag in his hands. He placed a wrapped bacon roll on one of the shelves of the row she was at and returned to his reading at the alcove, his own sandwich and tea at hand.

“There better be a second bacon roll for me in the bag.” She jested as she walked past him to the ring up the purchase of Apothecary Herbs Medica for one of the elderly witches. “I’m famished.”

“Judging by your appetite for dinner on Thursday, I made a mental note to never starve you.” A wry grin curled at Draco’s lips. He retrieved another wrapped package from the paper bag and held it up. Her face lit up with mirth as she took the proffered second sandwich.

Their interactions after were limited to casual glances every now and then as she busied herself with the bookshop and its customer and he concentrated on his book. When it was almost an hour to closing, her former schoolmate languidly stood up, stretching his arms above his head with the book in his right hand. Draco walked over to where she was, by an armchair near the main bay window, but stopped thirteen feet away.

“Granger.” He called out.

She didn’t bother looking up from her preparations of the props for her next window display. “What is it, Malfoy?”

“Look up.”

Half-annoyed, she gave a small resigned sigh and turned to her right. Her eyes widened when the caught sight of Draco’s stance, his right arm poised to hurl – a book.

“What do you think you are doing?” She hissed.

He grinned and prompted. “Catch.”

“Don’t.” She warned. “I’ve got the worst catching skills. And that’s a hardcover.”

“Then it’s just going to smack you in the face.” His wrist began to flex.

“Don’t you _dare_.” Hermione bristled. “Don’t you –”

“Just think of it as a Quaffle.”

“I don’t even _play_ Quidditch.”

“That’s what makes it all the more amusing.” Draco drawled. “Are you going to put your hands out for it or not?”

“You insufferable –” She didn’t get to complete her words as the book was flippantly launched her way. Hermione gasped and stumbled forward to clumsily reach for the book. Miraculously, it didn’t met her face and instead, fell neatly into her hands. A relief sigh escaped. “Did you really have to toss it instead of just handing it over as a mature adult would?”

Draco simply chuckled in unadulterated amusement. “I’ll be back with dinner.” He said with a careless wave of his free hand.

Hermione looked down at the book in her hands, noting it was one of the crime fictions from the wizard author whose book she had been reading in the Harpies-Magpies match. Her earlier suspicions kicked in and Hermione hastily flicked open the hardcover. True to her supposition, the familiar handwriting of one Draco Malfoy was evident in the pages of the book. “Bugger.” She muttered under the breath. “How _does_ he do this?”

She was tempted to send a Howler to wherever he was getting their dinner from, but decided against it in her nature to preserve self-control and avoid unnecessary attention. So she waited until he stepped back into the bookshop, ten minutes after she had turned the ‘Closed’ sign around, before she started on him.

“Can you be any more of a condescending prat?”

“Is that your Muggle way of thanking someone who brought you dinner?”

Hermione held up the hardcover she had been reading for the past half an hour. “Just how did you manage to write in my books? I was watching you.”

“As flattered as I am that you’ve been paying attention to me all day, I’m not going to give you the answer to that. You’re the smartest witch of our age. You should be able to tell me.” Draco disinterestedly said as he walked past her, carrying a large paper bag in his hand that looked suspiciously from a Thai restaurant just outside of Wizarding Cardiff – she recalled Ginny bringing her to the place for dinner during one of her visits to Wales.

“I was not paying attention to you all day.” Hermione quickly retorted, following after him.

“Then how would you know I didn’t have a quill on me?” He lightly challenged with a trail of laughter as he headed up the staircase to the next floor.

“So you admit to having a quill with you then?”

“That’s a quick-witted turnaround, I’ll give you that – but no, I didn’t have a quill.”

“Did you switch the book around when I wasn’t looking, that you had another copy with you all this while?”

“Why would I want two copies of the same book?”

“ _Some_ of us like knowing that if one copy goes missing, there’s always the other. Or if there’s a special print, or an illustrated version, or even with additional notes – there’s always a reason to have more than one copy of the same book.”

“Spoken like a true bookworm.”

“I have a hardcover in my hand and I’m not afraid to greet you in the head with it.”

“It’s a compliment, witch. Try not to be violent.”

“Two compliments in a span of a few minutes from a Slytherin, it must be my lucky day.”

“Don’t get used to it. I hand those out sparingly.” He quipped.

Hermione narrowed her gaze; the cog works furiously working in her mind for an answer to Draco’s constant writing in her book without looking. She didn’t recall him holding anything remotely close to a writing instrument last Thursday either as he simply focused his full attention on the book, flicking one page to the other as his fingers carelessly tapped against the book. The answer sprang to her mind just as Draco swiftly turned around for the next set of stairs that led to the attic.

“Wandless magic!” She suddenly said. He looked over his shoulder and winked. “How did you – are you adept at wandless magic as well?”

“Are you impressed yet, Granger?”

“I didn’t know you were attempting to impress me, so if you had been trying, you have obviously failed with your lacklustre slipshod attempts.”

“You say the sweetest things, Granger.”

“Sod off, Malfoy.”

“Positively filled with buckets of sparkles and rainbows, aren’t you?” Draco commented, laughing now. She felt her lips tugging upwards with his evident mirth. “Before you get carried away in utter admiration of my talents, I’ll admit now that my mastery of wandless magic is limited.”

“What can you do with it? Besides the obvious one of writing in people’s books.”

In response, Draco threw a proud smirk over his shoulder right as they reached the attic. Hermione was awfully tempted to hit him in the head with the book. Before she could raise her arm, he surprised her when he abruptly placed the takeaway paper bag to the ground and grabbed a small wooden step ladder by the corner of the room. To add to her bafflement, he placed the ladder to the middle of the room, climbed it, whipped out his wand from the edges of his right sleeve and murmured a few unlocking spells towards the ceiling.

“What are you doing?” She asked, thoroughly mystified.

Without bothering to reply, he simply sheathed his wand in his sleeve again before lightly knocking on what appeared to be a gradually visible trapdoor on the ceiling. It popped open within seconds and Hermione almost gasped aloud at the sight of the night sky that was revealed.

“How is that –”

“Welcome to a secret of Scripts and Scribbles.” Draco amusedly said, getting down from the step ladder to grab the paper bag once more. “Come on.”

“Is that –”

“You didn’t really assimilated those years of Astronomy classes in Hogwarts, did you? Yes, that’s the sky, and the stars that scatter and line the tapestry of Earth’s atmosphere.”

Hermione snorted. “I _know_ what the night sky looks like.” She followed after him and climbed through the trapdoor to the rooftop of the bookshop.

The late October evening greeted her skin with a gentle, cool breeze and a sniff of moist air from an expected rain later in the night. A few stars were still visible in the sky despite the heavy rain clouds that are indolently gathering and floating to one another. She couldn’t help but to smile at the scent and sight around her. Beside her, Draco drew out his wand again to cast another spell; transfiguring a few vines into cords of what looked like string lights but were actually little balls of lit candle wicks.

“These are fire hazards. Surely that rational thought crossed your mind.”

“So did the Aguamenti charm.” Draco distractedly answered. “Did you leave your magical books of spells at home today?”

His sarcasm was not lost on her but she held her tongue as she watched him slipped his wand back and a resolute firm line appeared at his lips instead. The balls of lights began to magically hang themselves in the air, criss-crossing as they went, and bathing her in a soft, warm glow.

“Does that answer your question about my magic?” He said, turning around to face her.

“I see your wandless magic includes decorating. Have you thought of a career as a party planner?”

It was Draco’s turn to scowl. “That was levitation. Not embellishment.”

She laughed. “Well, what else can you do?” She asked and reached for the paper bag to set the table with food.

“The small everyday things, mostly. Levitating, writing, summoning, stirring and scrubbing. Not much of the complicated charms yet, although I’m getting better with _Incendio_.”

Draco took a seat and accepted the paper plate and plastic cutlery handed to him. He frowned at them with unreserved distaste crossing his features and Hermione rolled her eyes. She pulled out her wand and within a few seconds, the paper and plastic transfigured into ceramic and steel.

“But I’m sure that you are holding back something from me.” Draco continued, eyeing her with a glint of mischievous suspicion in his grey orbs. “Out with it, Granger. How much of wandless magic do _you_ know?”

“Levitation and summon are my best as they are helpful for my previous profession when I have my hands full with potions and apparatuses. I am capable of a few healing spells but I avoid them as it’s harmful if not done correctly, so a wand is definitely preferable with those.”

An impressed look briefly appeared on the Quidditch player’s features before he schooled it into a casual expression. “I see you are still insatiable at trouncing me.”

“I won’t deny that I take delight in doing so. It was rather amusing to watch you gloat for a moment back there though.” Hermione innocently said, picking up her fork and a box of _phad thai_.

Draco took a spoonful of mango salad and placed it on Hermione’s plate before helping himself to some. “Swotty know-it-all.”

“Pompous show-off.”

His lips twitched as if trying to contain his smile. He picked up the box containing the Thai fish cakes and continued to fill Hermione’s plate.

“How did you know about the rooftop?”

“Eira brought me up here two years ago to clear my head when I was facing a losing streak with our league games. She thought the stars would help cheer me up.”

“Because of your namesake?”

“That would have been terribly unoriginal. Eira wanted to show me the North Star to remind me that even in the darkest of the skies, there would always be something – be it as faint or small as it may be, to glimmer in iridescent hope.” Draco explained before taking a forkful of the flat noodles on his plate.

“That’s very eloquent of Mrs. Warrington.” Hermione smiled. “She must have been a wonderful companion. I feel sorry that I didn’t meet her sooner and had more time getting to know her.” Her gaze shifted to her fork with a wistful curl of her lips.

“She is indeed.”

“I can tell that you are close to her, and Mr. Warrington.”

Draco nodded, looking thoughtful for a moment. “James and Eira were welcoming when I first stepped in here four years ago. They didn’t care I was Draco Malfoy, a former Death Eater. I was simply Draco to them – a customer, a reader, and I suppose eventually, a friend.”

“That sounds very much like them. I appreciate how upon our introduction, I was just a bookworm who wanted to earn their respect to be entrusted with their beautiful efforts of a lovely bookshop.”

“That’s who you long to be.” Draco said, carefully watching Hermione. “You don’t want Hermione Granger – the war heroine, one third of the Golden Trio, the St. Mungo’s Healer. Rather, you’d prefer to be Hermione Granger, the Muggleborn witch.”

Hermione felt her jaw going slack in her surprise at his words.

“It’s not that hard for one to recognise one.”

“What are you saying, Malfoy?”

“You are searching for your own identity, to be the person you are and not the person that everyone else made you to be or expected you to be.”

Hermione inhaled and sharply exhaled. She took a sip of water as if to stall for time.

“You’re not that hard to decipher, and it’s not with Legilimency either.”

“Then how did you know?” She twirled her fork amidst the noodles, as if she was eating pasta.

“I observe people.” The wizard responded, shrugging. “Spent my years after my sentencing just watching people and learning. I wanted to know how a person responded in a predicament, when they are afraid, or how does one be inclined to a choice, or even how they interacted with others who may or may not be of the same society standing.” A wry smile appeared. “Also, you have that particular look of your face – the one where you are simultaneously over-thinking and shielding your thoughts.”

“I do not.” Draco raised an eyebrow as if in silent challenge for her rebuttal. She pointed her fork at him in attempt to look menacing. “Alright. I probably do, but you shouldn’t know that look yet.”

The Seeker answered with a non-committal shrug and took a bite of his fish cake.

“What did you meant by spending years after your sentencing just observing people?”

Draco swallowed and shook his head with a wry smirk. “Let’s not change the topic just yet, Granger.” He drawled. “We’ve hardly spoke about you after all.”

“What else is there to know about me? Most of it are probably already in the papers.”

“Getting conceited, aren’t we?” He sniggered.

“Comes with being in your company, I reckon. Your self-importance tendency rubbed off on me.” She quipped, smiling.

“I take it that you are not ready to talk about yourself.”

 “No, I’m not.” Her smile faltered but her gaze boldly met Draco’s. “I’d appreciate it if we left that for another day.”

“Another day.” Draco repeated. She recognised the tone of amusement in his voice. “Are you implying a recurrence of this,” he gestured the space between them, “in the near future, and perhaps more than just once?”

Hermione snorted. “That was a metaphorical reference of time. I know it’s a default setting for you, but don’t get ahead of yourself, Malfoy.” She said before taking another bite of her noodles. Inwardly, she was grateful for his easy transition of their initial topic of conversation to a lighter one.

“Would you miss this?”

“What? Eating Thai food?” She made an extra effort to chew her noodles loudly. “Definitely.”

The corners of Draco’s mouth twitched as if he was holding back a smile. “You are a force to be reckoned with, Granger.” He quietly said and continued to eat – while Hermione was left speechless by his unexpected admission.


	5. Chapter 5

“Hermione, where do you keep the cups?” Harry asked as he began opening the kitchen cabinets.

“Second shelf from your left.” Said witch absently answered as she browsed the pages of Daily Prophet.

“What are you looking for anyway?”

“What do you mean?”

Harry smiled, nodding his head to the papers. “You are flipping through the pages without really reading any of the articles.”

“Oh.” Hermione looked up with a sheepish expression. “Nothing really caught my interest.”

“You’ve been doing that for the past few Sundays. Is this a new daily habit of yours?” Harry amusedly asked as he tipped the kettle over.

“Harry James – have you been creepily watching me?”

“Occasionally.” He teased. “Enough to have noticed that you’ve been fairly attached to the daily but never really stopping to read any of the stories until you reach the end. Which is where the sports section is located.” The edges of Hermione’s ears turned warm. “And that brings me to the question – did you pick up an interest for sports?”

“Not quite.”

“I always imagined if you’d fancy a sport, it would be golf.”

“Why?”

“It seems methodical. Like you are.” The raven-haired wizard took a look over her shoulders before placing the mugs alongside a plate of scones with jam and clotted cream on the table. “Absolutely nothing of the sort like Quidditch, perhaps?”

Hermione swallowed hard. She had picked up an interest indeed, but it wasn’t exactly on the sport itself, rather it was on one of its players. Her curiosity stemmed from the fact that she hadn’t seen the particular Quidditch player in almost three weeks since their dinner at the rooftop of Scripts and Scribbles.

The rest of their dinner had gone rather well, as well as Hermione assumed it would be with their verbal sparring that was peppered with good-humoured sarcasm and repartee about books. He left at a quarter to ten, after helping her with the cleanup and apparated from her sight as he bid his farewell at the doors. She hadn’t seen or heard from him since.

The bookshop proprietor wasn’t expecting herself to be concerned about his whereabouts, but from the two recent encounters they’ve had, they had struck up an amicable friendship after all – at least a resemblance to one. Plus, they did seem to enjoy each other’s company despite the incessant banters, Hermione mused. She just hoped he wasn’t off trying to murder himself with Quidditch considering his penchant for injuries with the flying contact sport.

“I was just curious about the league updates.” Harry guffawed at her answer, and Hermione squashed the tinge of annoyance at his reaction. “Contrary to what you may think, I do occasionally care about Ginny’s matches.”

“Right.” Harry grinned. “And I enjoy spending my time deciphering Ancient Runes whenever I’m bored.”

“Is that why your glasses are getting thicker?”

“Funny, Hermione.”

It was her turn to wolfishly grin. “But I am impressed with your newfound hobby. Does Professor Babbling know about it yet?”

“Alright, I get it. I’ll turn off the sarcasm.”

“Thank you.” The witch pleasantly said as she took a sip of her tea. “Is this from the new tea leaves from Kenya?”

Harry nodded. “It’s aromatic, isn’t it?”

“Very much.” Hermione happily took another sip. “I can’t express how much I adore these afternoon teatimes with you, Harry.”

“Only because I supply the tea leaves.”

“And I supply the scones.” She impishly pointed out as she knowingly handed a scone and the butter knife to Harry.

“When you put it that way – it’s a splendid barter system we’ve established.” Harry accepted both and started to slather his scone with clotted cream.

The witch grinned again and picked up her own scone, savouring the baked treat with jam.

It was a late Sunday afternoon and Hermione had spent the morning in the company of the Weasleys at the Burrow before Harry and her Flooed back to Cardiff. She had thoroughly enjoyed her time with the family, but couldn’t help but felt a twinge of irritation when Mrs. Weasley prompted her on the lack of a significant other and hinted of a ticking age for a witch. Mrs. Weasley had gone as far as asking if she was still keeping in contact with any of her fellow Hogwarts schoolmates who were still unattached.

Ginny, who was only trying to be helpful, had offered to set her up with the redhead’s circle of friends from Quidditch but she quickly declined. Bill was the one who came to Hermione’s rescue when he suggested that the new bookshop was likely to take up all of the younger witch’s time seeing as running one’s own business was a full-time effort. Angelina had chimed in with her agreement and deliberately diverted the topic to the joke shop’s plans of further expansion. Evidently, Harry had sensed of her frustration as he made to excuse themselves for the day, despite having initially planned to play a round of Quidditch with the Weasleys before teatime.

“So, Quidditch?” Harry asked with his gaze falling onto the Prophet’s dedicated page for the Wizarding world’s favourite sport. “You know that you could always ask me for anything Quidditch-related?”

“I know.” Hermione admitted. She just wasn’t sure if Harry knew enough about the particular player besides his match statistics. “I was honestly just taking a glance at the matches.”

“I guess that it isn’t the Harpies considering Ginny updates you for every match she plays, and certainly not Ron’s Cannons as you have never been to any of their matches even while you and Ron were seeing each other.” Harry speculatively mused. “Puddlemere United? Oliver’s doing brilliant as the team’s new Captain for the season.”

Hermione parted her lips for a moment and then bit her tongue as she wondered what to say. She was torn between being honest or continuing Harry’s presumptuous thought. “Well, as a fellow Gryffindor, I am proud of Oliver too.” Seeing Harry’s eyes taking on a glint of confusion, she quickly added, “I did send him a congratulatory card and a new broom servicing kit when it was announced he had been made Captain.”

It was true – Ginny had informed her of the news just as the new Quidditch league season began and having kept a friendship with the former Gryffindor Quidditch Captain after the war, Hermione was only more than happy to extend her well-wishes.

“I didn’t know you were that close to Oliver.”

“Ron and you are not my _only_ friends from the opposite gender.” She smirked.

“But Ron and I are your _only_ best friends from the opposite gender.” Harry corrected.

“I’ll concede to that.”

“Puddlemere’s having their next match on Friday night, if you’d like to go.”

Though she wouldn’t mind seeing Oliver, it wasn’t a compelling enough reason for her to spend a Friday evening at a crowded stadium with overzealous fans. The team was after all among the top teams of the league alongside the Montrose Magpies for three seasons in a row – it was down to either one to win the league this season. That alone promised that the fiercely loyal fans of Puddlemere would be showing their support at maximum.

Her nose scrunched at the thought. “I’d rather not.”

“Come on, Hermione. It would be exciting!”

“As exciting as my latest book on 10th century Arithmancy and how it changed the course of curse-breaking?”

“That –” Harry gestured with his cup of tea, “is dullest thing I have ever heard for a Friday night entertainment.” He aimed a mischievous smile in her direction and she knew he was trying to rile her up.

“Dull? Watching two teams of seven flying haphazard over a few balls is practically ridiculous.”

“And that brings me back to the interest of your sudden attention for Quidditch.” Harry triumphantly said and Hermione realised too late that the bespectacled wizard had hoodwinked her into affirming his ready conjecture about her. “So it _is_ someone on the team.”

“Don’t be meddlesome.”

“Is it really Oliver Wood?”

“Are you getting ideas from Mrs. Weasley?” Hermione crossly replied, though not quite meaning it.

Harry held both his hands up. “I’m sorry.” She felt her frown fading at her best friend’s guilty apology. Watching her still, Harry carefully lowered his hands. “I am only being concerned for you, Hermione. Any wizard would love to be with a talented young witch such as yourself.” He suddenly said – in a voice and tone that closely resembled to the Weasley matriarch.

Hermione’s eyes widened as she choked on her mirth. Harry immediately burst into a loud and long laugh.

“Harry!” She wheezed in between her laughter and swatted at Harry’s arm.

“You’re laughing too!”

“This stays between us.”

“I doubt Ginny would appreciate the fact that I’ve been imitating her mother.” Harry impishly grinned.

Hermione rubbed at the edges of her eyes. “You are incorrigible at times.”

“Yet I made you laughed.” Harry answered, still grinning. “And we are _still_ going for Puddlemere’s match.”

“You are not going to stop wheedling until I say yes, are you?”

“Absolutely. I’ll get the tickets for us and I’ll even come by to get you so we can apparate together to the stadium.”

Hermione released an exaggerated sigh. “Alright. Come by at six. I’ll close the bookshop early.”

“That’s the spirit, Hermione! Be sure to be dressed in blue for Puddlemere’s colours.”

She rolled her eyes in response. “I said I’d go, I didn’t say I’d be a fan.”

“Oliver would appreciate it.” Harry jested, laughing again when Hermione reached out to smack him but failed as he swiftly dodged. “I’ll say no more. Until Friday, that is.”

“I don’t know why I am agreeing to this.” Hermione rubbed her forehead with exasperation.

“Because it allows us to spend some time together.” Harry chuckled. “You’ll enjoy Friday night, ‘Mione. Trust me.”

Giving him a sardonic smile, Hermione pointedly replied, “I trusted you for six years in Hogwarts and looked where it led me to in our seventh year.”

“Oy!” Harry protested. “That’s not fair. Besides, you wanted to come along.”

“I had to. I couldn’t leave you to your foolhardy instincts.”

“Thank you for not calling me daft.”

“Well, you do put your brain to good use at times. Not all the time, but enough.” She teased while absently tying her hair up in a messy bun. “Will you be staying for dinner?”

“I can’t.” Harry apologetically shook his head. “Got to head back to the Ministry to sort out some paperwork before my trip to The Hague tomorrow for the Aurors’ conference.”

“Sounds daunting if your tone is anything to give it away.”

“It is. I wish you could come with me.”

Hermione laughed and patted Harry in the arm. “You are the Head Auror for the British Ministry for a reason, and it’s not because you took down an unhinged dark wizard of our generation and the one before.”

“Fucking deranged is more like it.” Harry lightly shuddered. Hermione raised an eyebrow and her best friend grimaced. “Sorry, language.” He dusted his hands from the crumbs and stood up. “I best be going if I want to complete the paperwork before midnight. Are you sure you can’t come along with me?”

“Wait – you wanted me to go with you to the Ministry to complete _your_ paperwork and _not_ to The Hague for the conference?” She said with an affronted look.

Harry sniggered and quickly scooted away before she could smack him again. “You’ve always been helping me with my homework.”

“That doesn’t apply to your paperwork as an Auror.” Hermione replied in a mixture of exasperation and amusement. “Honestly, Harry – what am I going to do with you?” She stood up as well and picked up the cups and plate for the sink.

“You know I’m just teasing, right, Hermione?”

“You better be.”

The Auror laughed again. “Come on, see me out will you? Promise you won’t back out on our Friday plan?” He offered her the crook of his arm and despite the frown on her face; she slipped her arm around his anyway.

“I’ll try not to.” She dryly said. “Take care of yourself on your travels, will you?”

Harry smiled, as if sensing of her rising tendency to worry – which she was fully aware was a default setting of hers when it came to Harry. “I will. I’ll owl you when the conference is done.”

“Don’t send me any of your paperwork with it.” She forewarned.

“I’ll _try_ not to.” He repeated.

She couldn’t resist the smile tugging at the edge of her lips with Harry’s response. She walked him to the main door for the wizarding folk and stepped out with him to the cobbled pathway. Light raindrops greeted them both, and the waft of cool moisture seeped into their senses. Harry released her arm and she instinctively turned to him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders in an affectionate hug.

“See you on Friday, Hermione. Have a great week till then.” He murmured.

“Likewise, Harry.” She smiled as she released him. Harry gave her a short wave before a familiar sound of a crack reached her ears as he apparated to Whitehall in central London for the underground public toilets. The Floo network and direct apparition to the Atrium were not available options considering it was a Sunday and for security reasons, the network and other entry points were closed to ensure only one way in and out of the Ministry with the constantly monitored Whitehall entryway.

“You’ve never offered me a farewell hug when I leave.” A sudden voice drawled as Hermione turned around to return to her haven of books.

She looked over her shoulder, past the drizzle, and her eyes widened at the sight that she was greeted with. “Did you pissed off a Hippogriff, _again_?”

The owner of the voice turned up his nose as if offended. “That was one time and I never did it again.”

Her gaze quickly examined his stature and noticed he was partly still in his professional gear. “Quidditch?” She guessed, wincing as she observed his right foot in which it was notably wearing his dragon-hide boot in a lopsided manner with laces untied. Blood caked his boot and the cuff of his trousers had an evident patch of dry blood that seeped through.

“Five points to Gryffindor.” He lazily grinned and slowly, and very unsteadily, hobbled over to her side. Hermione hurriedly closed the gap between them by walking up to him and reached for his arm to place it over her shoulder for support.

“You should lean on me and not put any pressure on that ankle of yours. It’s probably broken.”

“And that’s another five points to Gryffindor. Do you always point out the obvious?”

Hermione pointedly ignored him and instead pulled out her wand from her denim overalls and casted a mixture of anaesthetising and freezing spells on the injury before dragging him with her into the bookshop. She sat him down in one of the armchairs, noticing his deep hiss of pain, and immediately levitated his right leg atop a stool. “You’ve got a trimalleolar fracture.” She sighed. “This is going to take a while.”

“I’ve got the whole Sunday evening ahead.” Draco distractedly answered as he drew out his wand and deftly flicked it in a familiar gesture. Hot air streamed out of the tip of his wand, drying Hermione’s clothes and hair before he did the same for himself.

“Are you injured anywhere else?” Hermione asked with a searching look as her wand flicked a spell to examine his vitals.

Draco pointed to his ankle. “Just this one.”

The witch immediately set to work as soon as she summoned her medical kit. Her hand reached out for a pain potion in a glass vial and she gestured to him to down it in a quick gulp. She casted one charm after another with a concentrated expression etched on her face. Red sparks in different shades of the fiery colour emitted in each one. Her wand casted another spell and this time it emitted a glow of canary yellow. Biting her lower lip, she looked up at Draco with a severe look as her wand inched closer to Draco’s ankle again. “This is going to hurt.”

“How –”

Simultaneous sounds of cracks, clanks and clatters of the bones interrupted Draco’s question and turned it into a colourful string of extremities instead as the wizard in question howled in sheer pain, despite the numbing potion he had consumed.

“FUCKING MERLIN! I’m going to _fucking_ rip the guts of Anton Menotti and then skin him alive! Bleeding twat!”

A crackle sounded and within a split second, the unmistakeable hissing sounds of a flickering fire caught Hermione’s attention.

“Malfoy!” She quickly casted _Aguamenti_ to put out the licking flames of fire that had instinctively appeared in Draco’s right hand, ones that would have formed into a fireball if she hadn’t put it out sooner. “What is _wrong_ with you? She demanded, feeling incensed and severely annoyed.

“That fucking hurts, Granger.” He spat out.

“I told you it would, didn’t I? Don’t you dare start another fire in here or I _will_ burn you.” She summoned a kitchen towel and tossed it to Draco. “You should have gone to St. Angus if you wanted the least painful option. Or at least have your bloody medical team take a look at it and heal you instead.”

“They did a scan and stress test. Told me that I needed to get the broken bones fixed.”

“And you came here? _Of all places_? Why do I even keep seeing you here?”

“Have you ever thought that maybe I’m part –”

“If you tell me that you are part-Veela and I am your mate, I will break your ankle again,” she eyed him with venom lacing her next words, “with _my bare hands_.” She murmured another spell to continue with the required stitches; to Draco’s credit – he didn’t even cringed this time.

“I see jokes are lost on you when you are upset.”

“Try furious.” Hermione retorted. “Your ankle needed to be realigned. Your bones were practically crushed! Have you seen how your tibia was protruding out? That was _not_ normal. And you apparated here from Merlin knows where. You might have splinched yourself if you fainted from the shock of the pain. That is the most unintelligent and irresponsible thing you could have done, and I’m factoring in the times you provoked Buckbeak, joined the Inquisitorial Squad, and mended the Vanishing Cabinet.”

“Not that I’m proud of what I’ve done but the last took plenty of research and studying. I wouldn’t count that as lacking sharp intellect.”

“Apparating with a badly broken ankle defines obtuse.” She said with finality. Sweeping aside a lock of hair that fell loose from the bun atop her head, she continued with her spells without another word.

Silence descended upon them for the next few minutes as Hermione examined her treatment of Draco’s ankle. With a soft exhale of her breath when her wand finally sparked a particular hue of sage green, she reached for the bandage and began to gently wrap it around Draco’s ankle. She was still steaming on the inside for his apparent foolish recklessness but she wouldn’t allow it to get in the way of her obligation to heal, something akin to a second nature for her. The witch was also inwardly relieved to finally see him after those weeks of absence – undeniably, his sudden appearance somehow created a lighter and warm sentiment within.

‘ _Though he is still bloody barmy for apparating here with a horribly crushed ankle._ ’

She reached for a little piece of wood and transfigured it into an ankle brace before fitting the bandaged ankle into it.

“This should help you heal for the next few hours. You can take it off by nightfall – the contraption is just a precautionary measure.”

“In case I go imprudently gallivanting again?”

“Yes.” Hermione sardonically replied.

Draco grinned. “Can’t say I’m good with promises.”

“You are terribly infuriating.”

He shrugged, still with a wolfish grin on his face. “It comes with the name.”

Hermione began returning the healing supplies into her medical kit. “It is synonymous. And just right before the word narcissism in the dictionary.” She smirked.

“Speaking of books.” Draco suddenly reached into the black satchel beside him, and dug out a small black leather pouch. He withdrew three Galleons from the pouch and placed it on the small table. “That’s for the book I scribbled on the other day. I forgot to pay for it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “But you didn’t take it with you.”

“But I did intend to buy it and I wanted to leave it for you.”

“So you’re saying that you bought a book for me?”

“Try not to swoon now, Granger.” He jested with a half-smile. “I know that’s one way to the Gryffindor bookworm’s heart, but I’m not really trying that hard.”

Hermione crinkled her nose. “I hope you’re not trying at all.” She stood up, taking her medical kit with her and hoping that she wouldn’t need it again anytime soon. At least not for another messy bodily damage from one Draco Malfoy.

“You’ve just ruined my next move of presenting another book that I wrote in. Again.” He gave a smug smirk when she looked over her shoulder with a scowl.

“Have you got no respect for books?”

Draco didn’t answer but instead, pulled out said book intended for her from his satchel. Despite her annoyance with his horrid habit of writing in the bounded print materials, she made her way back to the wizard – half-stomping as she did so just to indicate her exasperation. His grin widened when she reached for the book in his hand.

“The Two Towers.” Her fingers trailed the title on the cover. She looked from the book to Draco, almost flabbergasted. “You read Tolkien too?”

“He has an exquisite narrative, flattering imagination and vivid prose. It’s difficult not to like, and I can see why this one is your favourite out of the three volumes.”

“And just how did you know that?”

He nodded his head in the direction of her favourite alcove. “You had all three volumes sitting there when I came by the other day, and this title was particularly more well-worn in its spine and pages.”

She opened the copy he had handed her and just as it always would be, his small yet neat calligraphy-like handwriting were in the margins of selected pages. A small smile curled at her lips. “You’ve placed plenty of thought into this.”

“Three weeks. That Muggle may have a compelling narrative but his words are a clutter of adjectives and nouns at times. I read his works a few years back but I had to re-read my copy again for this.”

A thought clicked in her mind and she looked at Draco with a shrewd expression. “Is that why you didn’t turn up here for three weeks?”

“I couldn’t possibly turn up empty-handed.” He wryly said. “Where is the decorum in that?”

“You do know that Scripts and Scribbles is already a bookshop and you don’t have to bring a book to be here?” She teased. “But thank you anyway.” She said as she settled in the armchair opposite him. Her fingers reached to turn the pages, slightly eager to know what Draco had thought of for one of fiction’s most epic works.

“I see your theme of home is rather timely for the season.” Draco gestured to the large bay window.

Her brown orbs flitted from the pages to meet his gaze from the edges of the Tolkien novel. The Seeker’s astute observation was a nature of his that was she was gradually beginning to notice and appreciate. She couldn’t pass him off as someone who would have anything go over his head, not that she would try although it would serve to be amusing to outwit him.

She had decorated the display with soft throw rugs, a few cuddly creatures including two traditional teddy bears perched comfortably over a fluffy chocolate brown cushion, cups of little marshmallows and bits of chocolate bars, a large jar of honey, antique copper teaspoons, and star-shaped gingerbread cookies tastefully scattered around.

“What was the two before that?”

Hermione smiled at his genuine curiosity. “Greek and mystery. I like the latter much more though – there were suitcases, locks and keys of all sizes, stained letters and crinkled postcards, maps and rolls of parchment, with a tweed blazer hung on charmed hook.”

“Shame that I missed it.”

She shrugged. “I could always take a photo for you whenever I change the display.”

“I was expecting more of an invite to come around whenever you change the display,” Draco gave his trademark roguish grin of tease, “but I suppose an owl greeting would do just as well.”

A small burst of mirth escaped Hermione. The witch said nothing however, and resumed her reading – with a smile still evident on her face. Draco called out _Accio_ for a book from among the shelves and she didn’t even have to look up to know he did it without a wand, and that he was highly likely to write in the book again. She guessed that he would be a stubborn as a Hebridean Black dragon when he was determined with something, and any attempts to thwart his intention would be rendered in ineffective. She also decided that she rather enjoyed the candour of Draco’s literary musings.

The former Gryffindor was however still very much tempted to jinx the next book he got a hold of; after all, her impeccable skill in irreversible jinxes was renowned during her fifth year and she had to put it to use before it turned rusty, she reasoned with quiet merriment.

Time ticked on its own accord as the pair set about with their respective reading in a companionable silence. The rain pelted against the world outside the bookshop but its sounds were a gentle echo of playful droplets. It wasn’t until it was almost ten minutes to an hour did Hermione finally stretched from her reading. Draco was still immersed in his book. She studied his profile for a brief moment before he looked up, as if feeling her stare on him. Smiling slightly, she summoned for a throw blanket that gently fell atop his legs.

“Typical Gryffindors. Feeling a need for a chivalrous act?” Draco smirked but without any malice. His grey eyes were bright with amusement.

“More of a Healer’s instinct actually.” She eyed his ankle which was poking out from beneath the blanket. “You should give it as much rest as possible before your next Quidditch game. Whose wrath did you incur from the Ballycastle Bats to have given you that? Anton Menotti was it?”

A pleased smile played upon the edges of Draco’s lips. “How did you know we were up against the Bats?”

Hermione’s fingers twitched against her instinct to slap her hand to her mouth for the slip. It was an evident reveal that she had taken some interest in the game, and worse, in _his_ team’s matches.

“Were you following our matches?” He asked again, prodding now. “Did you read the Sports section or checked in with the she-Weasley?”

“I was looking through the Prophet and chanced upon a piece about this weekend’s matches.” She quickly answered. “And your ankle? Did the Bats decided your devious Seeker antics were atrociously annoying and had to put an end to it?” 

The smile on his face widened and she knew he had caught on to her attempt at a diversion of the topic. To her surprise, he accepted her attempted distraction and chose to answer her instead. “I almost had the Snitch when their captain, Menotti, screamed bloody murder at their Beater, Danial Farhan to knock me off my broom. Or as Menotti so eloquently put it – fucking hurl the Bludger and destroy Malfoy.”

“That is appalling.”

“That twpsyn has a rather limited vocabulary after all.”

She raised an eyebrow at the unknown word in the sentence.

“Twpsyn refers to idiot in Welsh.” Draco explained for her benefit. “Honestly, I reckon it’s also a compliment if the team’s that desperate to get me out of the match. I measure well as a threat to them.”

Hermione shook her head. “I will never understand Quidditch and its players. Especially one of its players’ inane need to seek a non-active Healer’s help instead of his own professional medical team.”

“Why did you choose to be a Healer, Granger?”

The sudden question caught her off guard but Draco’s gaze was unrelenting as he watched her, waiting for an answer.

“To help others.” She finally said with a dismissive tone but she had an inkling that he wasn’t going to let up this time. His next words proved her conjecture was right.

“That’s pants. You could have entered the Ministry and draft legislations for the wizarding community, be among the law enforcers and prosecute those of the Dark Arts, or even be a professor at Hogwarts and teach the young minds of the next generations.”

“And it’s no less for a Healer in which the profession allowed me to be equally of useful assistance to the community.”

“You didn’t want to have to choose sides again.”

Hermione swallowed hard at Draco’s words.

“You live with a regret of the consequences that resulted from your choosing of a side. You wish there had been no such extremities of two ends, because even if you had chosen the Light, there were sacrifices you had to make. Including blood sacrifices.” Draco quietly said. “Being a Healer – it allowed you a chance to redeem yourself, wasn’t it? You could forget about the partiality and just concentrate on getting your patient better, regardless of who or what it was.”

A thin veil of tears shadowed her vision but she stubbornly kept them at bay. The brunette witch pursed her lips and pulled her knees close to her chest. She recognised it was a sign of vulnerability but she couldn’t care less as a truth about her was now laid out; her Gryffindor courage wouldn’t allow her to run from it. Concealing may be an entitlement, but running away was never in her nature.

“I wasn’t stretching far from the truth when I said the war has changed all of us.” She carefully said, watching Draco’s expression but he gave away nothing. “I loathed the pain that everyone had to go through. It wasn’t just the physical ones but there were the emotional scars that kept searing at our hearts, and the psychological ones that numbed us and our feelings at being a human. We stopped caring and remembering that we are all humans and creatures with a heart that pumps of blood, regardless of the blinkered belief on blood purity and status.”

She paused, looking down at her hands. “I forgot that myself. And I allowed those sacrifices to happen, and I still catch myself harbouring those distinctions. Do you remember how insufferable I was when we first bumped into each other again?”

“You told me that I was blaming myself for making the war happen, but here you are – blaming yourself for letting the war happen.”

Hermione slowly nodded. “I could have done something else. Something that wouldn’t have resulted in Teddy’s loss of his parents. Or Crabbe’s demise in the Room of Requirement. Or even something for Professor Snape – if only I believed in him and saw past my clouded judgements.”

“Granger, listen to yourself.” Draco firmly said. “You are assuming that you could have wielded some sort of change over those events because you’d have the control to do so. I’m not implying that you are incapable, but you have got to understand that you didn’t allow any of those things to happen, they happened for a multitude of reasons.” A frown crossed his features. “Everything happened because of circumstances that may or may not have been in your influence, but it is definitely not because of yours alone.”

“I could have changed it!” Hermione vehemently replied. “I should have discovered about the Horcruxes sooner and led the war away from Hogwarts. And I could have confronted Professor Dumbledore on his evident partiality for the Gryffindors because that simply pushed the Slytherins further into the belief that they were meant to align with their upbringing and family traditions.”

“That’s just full of yourself. You are placing yourself on a pedestal, Granger. Knock yourself off it.”

“Riddle’s diary. We knew about it in the second year – I should have further looked up on it and discovered how it was possible for a soul to be contained in an inanimate object and yet encompassed emotions and thoughts like a living person would. That was my first mistake.”

Draco huffed. “Are you even listening to the words that you are sputtering right now? We were only second-years who were still trying to harness and control our magic. And you – you were a Muggleborn who was probably still trying to make sense of the wizarding world.”

“I was not any lesser of a witch than you were as a wizard back then!” Hermione bristled.

Draco sharply exhaled. “I don’t doubt your magical ability. I thought we had established that before. I find you _fucking_ terrifying when you are wielding your wand to defend the ones you love.” He looked at her resolutely in the eyes yet calmly said, “You have a frightfully but intelligently creative wandwork.”

His equanimity made her recognised her manic outburst. Breathing in deeply, she recollected herself. A glass of water floated to her view and she gladly accepted it. A few sips of water in, she finally looked at Draco again.

“I suppose I felt as if I have failed at being a witch. What good is it if I have such magical abilities but I am unable to use them to help others?”

“You are not obligated to help anyone, Granger. Go ahead and help everyone if you must, but don’t make it a sworn responsibility. It’s not an Unbreakable Vow.”

“That’s – that’s what Harry said as well.”

“Saint Potter has his share of logic then.” Draco said, smirking.

“He is the Head Auror, Malfoy. You’d think the position requires more than just taking down a Dark Lord as a prerequisite.” Draco let out a low chuckle in response. Hermione softly sighed. “I never really liked talking about this. I’ve internalised it so well but I suppose the cracks were showing and they became pointed captious edges.”

“Someone once told me, and I quote in verbatim – you deserve forgiveness, at least from yourself.”

“I thought being a Healer would alleviate that regret. That I could just be me again, and I didn’t have to choose any sides.” She admitted. “I would be able to ease the pain of others and help them through their sufferings, no matter how menial as their injuries may be. But I was only compartmentalising my emotions and not dealing with them.”

“Do you wish you knew how to?”

“Do you?”

Draco offered a resigned smile. “I’d fancy if I did. It’s never going to really leave us.”

She shifted her gaze to the glass of water, as if it was suddenly the most fascinating object she had seen. “It will stay with us, won’t it? Even for Harry, we never really talked about it much but when he does open up to me, I can see it still hurts him.” She bit down hard on her lower lip.

“Every one of us has our own nightmares. You are not alone, Granger.” The wizard before her confessed. “I probably lied to myself far more than I’d have liked to deal with the blasted pain and regret that haunts me.” Grey orbs took on a distant look as they stared out the window, watching the drops of rain water rolling down the glass panels. “But I try to anyway – to deal with it, I mean. I can’t keep running away from them, can I? And I mean that literally.”

Hermione regarded him and saw that past the exterior of the unruffled composure and confident saunter, Draco was indeed still feeling the flames of the past, licking his wounds and bearing its scars. His mark in particular, the one that branded his left forearm, was faded and withdrawn but it was still there – she saw it when he took off his shirt weeks ago. The former Death Eater didn’t hide it from her view, he didn’t even try to cover it up but instead, he allowed it to be as if daringly confronting his past no matter how it may define the present him.

“No, you can’t.” She softly said. “We can’t keep running away from them. And you don’t have to face them alone.” Draco’s gaze flickered back to her brown orbs that took on a warm hue as she offered a small, shaky smile. “If we are going to let ourselves be afflicted by our past, we might as well we do it together with someone from our past.”

A sudden snort of laughter escaped Draco, and Hermione caught on to his amusement as a torrent of laughter spilled from her lips. Soon, they were both laughing so hard that Hermione had her free hand clutching onto her sides as tears, in a mixture of hilarity and bitterness, rolled down her cheeks.

Her heart however, was feeling lighter and warmer on the inside. There was an incandescent flicker within her as she kept laughing and hearing Draco’s laugh weaving with hers, filling the air with unexpected gaiety.

She took a deep breath from the last of her laughter and placed her glass on the coffee table. Stretching for a bit, she wiggled her toes as soon as she stood up. “Would you like to have a share in the lasagne I’m planning to heat up for dinner?”

“I highly doubt I would want to go out in the rain with this foot.” Draco pointed out with an indolent look. “Therefore I shall take up on your offer and allow myself to be waited upon.”

Hermione made a face but said nothing in her refusal to justify his statement with an answer, and marched into the kitchen to set about heating the layers of pasta and cheese. She remembered Draco’s preferred choice of tea but the wet weather induced her preference for hot chocolate instead. Smiling to herself, she concocted her own hot chocolate recipe consisting of dark chocolate, raw honey, butterscotch, milk and a dash of rum. Filling it up into two mugs, she levitated the hot pan of lasagne and two forks as she carried the mugs in both hands to where Draco sat reading.

He took a whiff of the scent from the hot chocolate she offered in his face, and gave a teasing smile. “Is that alcohol I smell?”

“A little bit of rum to keep us warm.” Hermione grinned as she settled back into her armchair, tucking her feet beneath her and summoning her own throw blanket to cover her legs.

“It’s good. Where did you get it from?”

“It’s my own recipe.”

The Seeker lifted an eloquent eyebrow. “I don’t suppose you’d share it?”

“I can be selfish where I want to be. And this is one of those times.”

Draco sniggered. “Of all things you could choose to be selfish, it’s over a recipe.”

“I have a trove of recipes from my family and each one of the Granger generation has always created a recipe of their own, and this is mine.”

“Enjoy cooking much, Granger?”

“Absolutely. That lasagne that you are about to partake was not bought from a store or a restaurant.” She proudly said. “I baked it.”

“With magic?” He teased, earning a sudden flying cushion in his direction. The Quidditch player effortlessly ducked and chuckled.

“With an oven.” She corrected, turning her nose up with a crinkle. “Go on, take a bite. I’m undoubtedly positive that you’d enjoy it.”

Eyeing her sceptically, Draco reached for the hovering fork and neatly dug his cutlery in. He took a mouthful, and Hermione waited with an expectant smile. She watched as he took an exaggeratedly long time to chew and swallow.

“It’s – not horrible.” He finally said, but the corners of his mouth gave him away as he fought the growing smile.

“Just say it, Malfoy. It won’t emasculate you if you do.”

“Sometimes I reckon that you are more of a pretentious swot than you let on.”

“Say it.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “It is delicious.”

“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“I was held at fork-point to compliment your cooking.” He said and gestured to the other fork that was hovering dangerously close to his face.

Hermione flushed, not realising that she had unconsciously forgot to cancel the levitation charm and it had followed the will of her mind. “ _Accio_ fork.” She held her hand up as the cutlery spun around to her instead. “Sorry about that.”

“Try not to stab me with a fork the next time you decide to feed me again.” Draco imperturbably said, taking another bite.

“Now look who’s being a presumptuous prat.”

“Come on now, Granger. You wouldn’t be able to resist not showing off your cooking skills, especially towards me, someone whom you’ve always had such tremendous joy in outdoing.”

She gave a sheepish grin. “I do like knowing that I still outshine you. It’s a bit of a second nature really.”

“I can imagine.” Draco replied, making a face. “You are terribly competitive, Granger.”

“As if you aren’t.”

“Only in Quidditch.”

“Right. And that is why you appeared here with a crushed ankle and possibly a match that your team lost?”

“Oh, but didn’t I tell you what happened to Farhan after he broke my ankle?” A complacent grin appeared on Draco’s features. “I had Ramsey take a whack at him on my behalf right after I sent him spinning to meet the north stands. The Bludger greeted him squarely in the face. Farhan broke his nose, jaw, cheekbones, and four of his front teeth fell out. I presume he was supposed to have a date tonight as I saw his fiancée in the very stand that he slammed right into.”

“Malfoy!” Hermione chided, despite the amusement that she was holding back.

“It was very satisfying to know he wouldn’t be able to use his mouth for anything else tonight.”

“You’ve ruined someone’s date.”

Draco shrugged. “He ruined my ankle. Though it’s mostly Menotti’s fault for barking out that instruction.”

“ _That_ is being vindictive, not competitive.”

“It’s Quidditch, Granger. We are meant to be tremendously resourceful in outwitting the opposition.”

“And outrageously creative in breaking each other’s bones.” She quipped. “I’m glad that Harry and Ron aren’t playing professionally. Between Ginny and you, I reckon the both of you could manage to break an entire human skeleton structure, re-grow it and then break it all over again. Not that I’m implying it as a challenge.” She quickly said when she noticed a wicked grin colouring his features. Her gaze trailed down to his ankle. “Does it feel better now?”

“If I say yes, would you refuse me the rest of the lasagne and hot chocolate?”

Hermione made an ungraceful snort at the absurdity. “Even if I did evict you, you’d probably charm them both to leave with you anyway.”

“Well then, my ankle is feeling much better.”

“You can take off the brace before you leave for home.” In an afterthought, she added, “Where is home for you anyway?”

His eyebrows furrowed. “Here in Cardiff. I thought that was obvious enough.”

“I don’t suppose _every_ building here is your home. Even if your last name is Malfoy.”

He chuckled. “A terraced house just a short walk away from Roath Park. Why do you ask?” He asked with suspicion. “If you are enquiring because you need a place to stay – the answer is no, Granger.”

“I wasn’t even asking for said reason. And that was exceptionally selfish of you.”

“I _refuse_ to share my bathroom with you.”

“I’m sure you have more than one in your home just so you could fit all that hair gel and spray that you use.” Hermione retorted. “Besides, I’m not even interested to be sharing a living space with you. I was only asking because it didn’t really made sense that you live here but your home team is based in Scotland.”

“Have you heard of Apparition, Granger? It comes in handy for wizards and witches to travel from one place to another. Or perhaps the Floo network where you throw some grainy sand into the fireplace and it takes you to another fireplace of your preference?”

Another cushion was sent hurling across at Draco. He ducked and laughed out loud. “Will you stop throwing things around?” He guffawed.

“You make it fairly difficult for one to be holding a conversation with you without the tremendous urge to hurl something at you.”

The wizard fluffed the cushion and placed it behind his back. “You’ve got a bright future ahead of you as a Chaser.” He amusedly said.

“Duly noted. Let me know when the next tryout is.”

“But you know, Granger – if you really do need a place to stay, which I am guessing you do, I could sort out something.”

Hermione gave a mock gasp. “Are you actually displaying compassion, Malfoy?”

“Yes, for that hair of yours.” He made a dramatic gesture of trying to look around her head. “Obviously sleeping here in the bookshop does nothing to help you tame that horrendous bush of a hair that passes off as your Kneazle’s coat.”

Another cushion was sent soaring in Draco’s direction.


	6. Chapter 6

Just as she promised she would, Hermione turned around the sign to indicate that Scripts and Scribbles was close for the day at five to six on Friday evening. She picked up her black wool cape jacket, one cleverly charmed to repel raindrops, and buttoned it over her white oxford and black jeans. Double checking if her wand was in its inner pocket, Hermione satisfactorily nodded to herself when her fingers felt the familiar thin wood. A knock sounded at the doors and a grin immediately filled her features when she looked up to see Harry’s smiling face.

“I thought I told you to dress in blue.” Harry teased as she stepped out of the bookshop to greet him.

“I’d dress however I’m comfortable with, Harry.” The witch of the Golden Trio smugly smiled.

“You might want to bring along a scarf with you.” Harry observed, his hand stopping Hermione from charming her doors with a locking spell. She shot him a curious look. “ _Accio_ Hermione’s grey scarf.” Within seconds, a flurry of grey fabric slipped into his hands and Hermione watched with amusement as the raven-haired wizard neatly folded it into a small square and thoughtfully placed it into her open satchel.

“Harry, it is still November. Barely a wintery weather just yet. The wool I’m wearing will keep me warm enough for now.”

Her best friend met her gaze with a raised eyebrow. “It’s getting rather nippy up north.”

“Up north?” She absently answered as she casted a complicated locking charm to the doors.

“Angus. The weather’s dropped to a four today.”

Hermione whipped her head around in surprise. “Angus? As in Angus, Scotland?”

Harry nodded with a mixture of laughter and tentativeness colouring his features. “The last that I’ve known of – yes.”

“I thought we’d be heading to Dorset. Isn’t that Puddlemere’s home ground?”

“Yes, but they are playing an away match today.” Harry answered, taking Hermione’s arm in his. “I assumed you knew when you were reading the Prophet the other day.”

“I didn’t –” Her words fell short as the cog works in her mind quickly pieced together the facts. She sucked her in breath when she realised that they were heading for a particular team’s home ground.

‘ _Shite. How did I miss it?_ ’

Before she could say anything further, Harry performed a side-along apparition and her would-be protest was drowned by the sudden vacuum of space. When she opened her eyes again, she was on the very grounds of the Montrose Magpies’ vast stadium and the bright lights almost blinded her.

Colours of black and white filled her vision, from flags and banners to the jerseys of the fans. Charmed silvery outlines that formed magpies flew overhead, gathering together to form the crest of the home Quidditch team before exploding with a shower of elaborate sparkles of black and white.

In the midst of the black and white, a sea of navy blue was evident and Hermione guessed they were fans of the visiting team. Hermione looked down at her clothes and winced. From her black knee-length boots to her top, she was clearly dressed for the home team. Harry was dressed in black trousers but his jumper and the shirt underneath were a hue of blue while his Puddlemere United scarf proudly sat around his neck.

“I never knew that Hermione Granger is a Magpies’ fan. Fascinating revelation, I must say.”

The newcomer’s voice caught her attention and she looked over her shoulder to see Blaise Zabini, along with Neville Longbottom and Ron, standing next to her. The tall, dark-skinned former Slytherin greeted her with a playful curve of his lips as he casually slipped his hands into the pockets of his pressed black trousers to his three-piece all-black suit and coat. She almost balked at his formal dressing, but then again, she wouldn’t have expected any less from the wizard who was known to be particular with his appearances. Similar to Draco, she noticed that Blaise adopted a genteel aura in the manner he carried himself.

“Zabini.” She warmly greeted.

“Blaise, if you would. We’ve came across each other plenty of times now that first names should be a given.”

Hermione’s smile widened as she nodded. She looked to Neville and Ron, reaching over and giving them both a hug each in greeting. Harry took Blaise’s offered hand for a congenial shake.

“This is a pleasant surprise. I didn’t know that either of you would be here today too.” She said to Ron.

“Harry told me about it.” Ron grinned, almost wolfishly. “Thought I would come along for the fun and I invited Neville here while Blaise’s a tag-along.”

“Thank you for positioning me with such an insignificant presence.” Blaise dryly said.

Neville chuckled. “Blaise was getting off work too, so I thought he might want to come along for an evening of Quidditch. After all, it’s Draco’s team.” He explained to Hermione.

“Not that I’m here to solely support the ferret,” Blaise said, earning a round of laughter from the group for his choice of word to refer to Draco, “but I do fancy the Magpies at their best, especially against their top rival.”

Hermione smiled, but she didn’t miss the way Neville referred to Draco by the Seeker’s first name, something in which she found odd as she didn’t recall Neville having shared of a close acquaintanceship with the latter.

Neville and Blaise’s familiarity with each other was logical as they shared a working relationship as partners of a potions company they had started together three years after the war ended – Blaise apparently had the business acumen and financial investment while Neville provided his impeccable knowledge and research in Herbology. Together, the both of them made a formidable partnership as their potions were advanced and groundbreaking in the field of healing. On the sidelines, they also dabbled in potions for nutrition and psychiatric disorders.

“We should get going, Ginny’s saved us seats.” Harry pointed out, offering his arm again to Hermione.

She gladly accepted it as the crowds were getting rowdier by the minute and it would be easy to get separated from her friends. Neville flanked her other side and she shot him a grateful smile as he made sure she wouldn’t be crushed by a large group of singing Puddlemere fans. They made their way to the stands, taking almost twenty minutes to reach the top seats due to the hordes of spectators and fans alike. Chants and songs filled the cold Scottish evening weather with the respective team’s fans trying to outdo the other party as if in a taunting attempt. The stadium was a sea of black, white and blue.

When they reached their seats, Hermione noticed that Ginny wasn’t alone. Rather, to the redhead witch’s left sat Michael Corner and Terry Boot. She frowned at the unexpected presence of the former Ravenclaws, especially since Harry had not mentioned anything of anyone else joining them for the evening. Ron and Ginny were a given, while Neville was a friendly addition and Blaise was a coincidence – but she couldn’t say the same for Michael and Terry.

A wary thought crossed her mind but she kept her lips shut as she followed Harry to their seats. Ginny beamed when their gazes met and Hermione simply lifted a questioning eyebrow. She waved to Michael and Terry when they sat down but her attention was focused on Harry instead as she tugged hard at the bespectacled wizard’s sleeve.

“Harry!” She hissed into his ear. “What _exactly_ is this?”

“I’m just as baffled as you are, Hermione. I had absolutely nothing to do with this.” He whispered back.

“So you do know this a set up?”

“It’s looking as if it’s one.” Harry replied with an apologetic wince. “Honestly, I had no idea.”

Swallowing her exasperation, Hermione answered with a huff, “I’m going to have a word with Ginny after this.”

“She means well, you know that.” Harry said, as if attempting to mollify her. He offered her a hopeful smile.

She almost groaned out loud. “I don’t need anyone meddling into what is seemingly a deficiency of romantic interactions in my life.” She retorted, but low enough so that Neville, who was seated beside her, wouldn’t hear her.

Harry chuckled. “I believe the correct word is _inexistent_.”

“Oh, sod off.” She playfully elbowed him in the sides. “You are _not_ allowed to switch seats with any of them if Ginny asks you to. Promise me.” Harry’s expression was one of complete amusement. She elbowed him again – hard. “Harry!”

“Alright, alright. I promise.”

“Butterbeer?” Neville’s voice broke into their conversation and Hermione turned around with a smile for her fellow Gryffindor. “Blaise’s got some Chocolate Frogs and Sugar Quills too.”

“Just a Butterbeer will do. Thanks, Neville.” Hermione appreciatively said as she accepted the chilled bottle.

“I’ve got packs of crisps, if anyone wants some.” Ron loudly offered. Snacks and drinks began to pass down the row and up again as Michael offered bags of Honeydukes sweets while Terry had a case of six Firewhiskey in which Hermione and Michael passed on so the others had one each to themselves.

An animated male voice suddenly boomed across the pitch and everyone cheered. Hermione’s eyebrows knitted together when she tried to place the owner of the voice.

“That’s Lee Jordan’s voice.” Neville helpfully supplied.

“Lee?” Hermione repeated in surprise.

“He’s the official commentator for the Montrose Magpies’ home matches.”

“Before you stab me with your bony elbows again, Lee’s happily married.” Harry whispered with a smile tracing his voice. Hermione narrowed her gaze at the raven-haired wizard and he nonchalantly shrugged. “Just in case you get too paranoid.”

In response, she slapped his wrist good enough to slosh the Firewhiskey in his hand.

“Harry!” Ginny chided.

Hermione snickered. She decided it was bonus points that she got to Ginny as well, although she would still fancy another deliberate and detailed revenge on the redhead witch. As much as she adored the younger one, sometimes, Ginny’s personality resembled too closely to Mrs. Weasley’s – well-meaning but misguided nosiness.

The whistle blew and Lee Jordan’s howl of delight returned her attention to the pitch in time to see the black and white Magpies taking to the sky. She had to admit, the team was indisputably graceful in the manner they flew; there was a fluid coordination of pace and a tacit synergy between the players as they circled the pitch. It didn’t take her too long to spot Draco either, he hovered by one of the Magpies’ Chasers – grey eyes scanning the pitch and the sky above them as if quickly absorbing the conditions he’d be seeking the Snitch in. His expression held the look of calculated strategy and tactical astuteness.

The match began with a deadlock in the first forty minutes with neither Puddlemere nor the Magpies scoring as both teams were determined to keep the other away from the goal hoops. The Chasers weaved in and out of each other, swiftly dodging the maddening Bludgers, while the Keepers of both sides deftly raced to the hoops to swipe the Quaffle away.

Hermione’s hand reached for her satchel to pull out her book but as soon as she did, the cheers in the stadium suddenly turned up a notch higher. She looked up to see one of the Magpies’ Chaser, Regina Shawston, swerving past a Bludger as she collected a clean pass from another Chaser and headed straight for the goal post.

Draco blusteringly swept past Puddlemere’s Keeper, Gryffindor’s very own Oliver Wood, in a sudden dive from the corner, creating a sudden distraction in which when the latter returned his gaze to Regina – the Quaffle was already hurtling towards their third Chaser, Lynch McIlroy. With the Finbourgh Flick, McIlroy’s Quaffle soared through the lower hoop. Hollers and roars of delight erupted through the stadium from the Magpies’ breaking of the deadlock with an opening goal.

“That was amazing!” Neville exclaimed. “I honestly thought Shawston would take the aim instead of making a pass.”

“The Chasers are mad brilliant in their passing tactics.” Ron commented. “Look! They are going for another one!”

“Bloody hell! That’s a foul!” Blaise hollered when one of Puddlemere’s Chaser, Aiden Wong, grabbed onto McIlroy’s broomstick in a blocking attempt.

Hermione exhaled and wondered if she could excuse herself to leave a little earlier. While she understood the enthusiasm of the match, she wasn’t much of a fan to take much interest of the passes or scores, and much lesser for any fouls.

“Hermione Granger – don’t you dare think about leaving.” She looked to her left in astonishment to see Ginny now seated next to her, having switched seats with Harry. Ginny grinned. “We’re only forty three minutes into the match and you’re already with a book.”

“It’s not really that fascinating for me.”

“Not even with the lads that we are with?” The younger of the two witches wiggled an eyebrow.

Hermione groaned. “You really did set me up, didn’t you?” She demanded, but with poor authority as she wasn’t truly upset with Ginny.

“Not quite. It’s more of a casual get-together with everyone, but it just so happens that everyone I invited are somewhat eligible bachelors.” Ginny brightly smiled.

“Are you implying that Harry is one of them as well?”

“No.” Ginny quickly shook her head. “He doesn’t count.”

“What am I? Minced pie?” Harry made a face, clearly having overheard the conversation.

Hermione laughed as Ginny responded, “A very adorable one at that.”

Cheers and claps erupted once more across and over the stadium grounds. Hermione turned to look and noticed that Adam Rothbone from Puddlemere United had scored for the visiting team.

“Come on, Puddlemere!” Harry called out in glee at the goal. “Get another one in!”

Puddlemere kept up their line of attack, scoring another quick header from one of its Chasers before sweeping up the Quaffle again and lobbed another aim at the goal post – missing the Magpies’ Keeper’s outstretched left hand. Harry, Terry and Michael jumped up, hollering at the successive goals.

“He doesn’t show this much enthusiasm for my matches, does he?” Ginny amusedly asked Hermione.

“Close enough.” Hermione grinned. She patted Ginny in the arm. “He still supports the Harpies though, cheer up.”

“By default in association.” Ginny rolled her eyes. “Just like Ron does.”

“The Magpies are really furious now! Look at that zig-zagging that Auvray is doing!” Ron animatedly pointed out, leaning forward as if he was the one on the broom. “He’s going in for the kill!”

Before the Magpies’ Chaser could reach within fifteen yards of the goals, a hurtling Bludger smashed into him right in the ribs. The crowd booed and both Neville and Ron let out a stream of curses. Blaise shook his head, frowning, while Harry, Michael and Terry cheered for the “brilliantly timed hit”. Hermione decided that watching the fans of Quidditch was much more interesting than the match itself.

Despite the sudden ambush, the Magpies remained a threatening force as Shawston grabbed the fallen Quaffle, flicked it to McIlroy who then circled around a Puddlemere Chaser and made his way towards Wood. Another Bludger threatened to knock the Scottish Chaser off his broom but to Hermione’s surprise, Draco unexpectedly swooped in and collected the impact by Puddlemere’s James Hadley, a strictly bulky-sized wizard with arms that revealed the intensity of a workout that the Beater goes through.

Hermione winced as the Bludger met Draco’s shoulder. She was sure if she was close enough, she’d be able to hear a crack with the impact.

_‘I hope the prat’s wearing shoulder pads. That was utterly dim of him to get in the way of a Bludger!’_

Despite the thoughts that ran through her mind, she couldn’t help but wonder if she did at least remembered to pack the medicinal salve that easily heals bruises and cuts in her satchel.

McIlroy, let loose from the Bludger, goes on to attempt to bring home a goal for the Magpies. The intensity of the match picked up, putting the previous sixty minutes to a shame as if it had been a mere stroll in the park for both teams. Hermione could feel the collective fervour from the fans of both teams as the players whizzed across the field with balls rapidly hurtling back and forth.

Within the next ten minutes, Puddlemere scored another goal via their Chaser, Valerie Torney, before Shawston picked up the pace again for the Magpies with a fabulous counter-attack with McIlroy, creating a clinical sweep at the goal post from eighteen yards away with the edge of her broomstick. The Magpies scored another when Sébastien Auvray swiftly collected the fallen Quaffle from Puddlemere’s slip and struck it with his left hand into the top goal post. The reaction from the fans was thunderous. To Hermione’s left, Harry groaned while Terry shouted for a penalty as Wood was constantly harassed by both Magpies’ Beaters during the goal.

Both teams kept up the high speed intensity of the match, attempting more goals and consequently blocking every attempt from the opposition to cancel out the other’s lead. The teams were also decidedly bloodthirsty as more fouls were committed, and the first incident of a broken appendage happened within seconds as a Bludger flew straight at one of Puddlemere’s Beaters, knocking the poor lad in the knee and successfully fracturing his kneecap and in turn, unhinging him from his broom.

Hermione shifted her attention and decidedly returned to her book, despite Ginny’s nudge at her sides to pay attention to the match instead. Unlike before however, she found herself partially distracted by the match as Lee Jordan’s lively commentary kept drawing her attention from the words in her book. She convinced herself to focus on her copy of The Garbled Contention of Germanic Runes, though the occasional mentions of a particular name would cause her to sporadically pause in her reading.

When Lee loudly gasped, Hermione finally looked up again and her gaze was met by the sight of Draco narrowly manoeuvring away from the opposition’s Beater’s attempt to have him fly into one of the stands. There was a fierce look of determination on Draco’s face as he navigated around the players. Hermione found herself keeping an eye on the former Slytherin as he flew back across the pitch, suddenly in an unstoppable force as he followed the Snitch.

The score was at 120-170 and Puddlemere was in the lead with a hundred and sixty minutes into the match.

“Malfoy’s planning to end the match.” Ginny observed.

“He better be. It’s been over two hours.” Hermione distractedly answered, still watching as the Seekers of both teams flew past the top stands.

“You do know that’s not how we play our matches on a tactical front? It’s not a matter of the time duration, but on how much points we could haul in the bag to put us up at the top of the league.” Ginny shook her head, chuckling. “But seeing as how Malfoy’s so eager to end this, he must know that Puddlemere is capable of widening the gap and consequently causing a loss for the Magpies if he doesn’t get the Snitch before they do.”

“If he doesn’t kill himself in the process.” Hermione muttered as she caught sight of Draco and Puddlemere’s Seeker, Michelle Mallorey, now criss-crossing each other at breakneck speed above the stadium. Lightning struck the sky above, flashes of bright lights illuminating the night, and hovering dangerously close to the Seekers.

“Come on, Malfoy!” Ron hollered.

Hermione held her breath as a spark of lightning struck just centimetres away from Draco’s leg. She bit down hard at her lower lip. They were flying much higher and the clouds were beginning to obscure the view of the two Seekers, it was only thanks to the lightning that anyone could see what was going on above. Mallorey seem to came close to the Snitch but Draco forcefully steered her into the path of a bolt of electrostatic discharge to deter her reach.

The Seekers soon began to plunge downwards, following the trail of the flittering golden ball. A Bludger whipped past Mallorey’s head, missing an attempt to knock her off in diversion, and Draco swerved at the last second to avoid said Bludger. Intent on getting to the Snitch, he drove down his broom harder and closely flanked Mallorey. The Puddlemere Seeker had leaned forward with both her hands out, one for the Snitch and the other reached out to hinder Draco’s sight.

“Oh bloody hell – she can’t do that! That’s an obstruction! A foul!” Neville protested, standing up.

A packet of crisps goes flying with the sudden reaction. Both Hermione and Blaise exchanged a look of light-hearted exasperation at being rained on by salted thin slices of baked potato.

In fact, practically everyone was up on their feet as the air of adrenaline in the stadium steadily grew with the awaited catch of the Snitch. Gasps and bated breaths, hollers and chants from the fans filled the air.

Draco gave a push at Mallorey’s hand and abruptly leaned sideways before making a full 180-degree turn upside down. The action caught the other Seeker’s astonishment as she briefly turned to her right to see what he was doing, and it was at that moment that Draco sped up and launched himself off the broom – arm outstretched and fingers clasping around the blustery cold air. A collective gasp rose from the stadium. He was rapidly falling from almost 6,000-ft and Hermione’s breath was caught in her throat as horror rose within her.

“Malfoy’s mental!” Ginny exclaimed.

“He fucking tossed himself off his broom!” Michael said in aghast.

“Did he manage to catch the Snitch?” Harry strained to see.

“Sodding show-off.” Hermione caught Neville saying. “He just had to go for it, hadn’t he?” She turned to her right side to see Neville dropping a few Galleons onto a smirking Blaise’s waiting palm.

“You made a bet on Malfoy’s clearly idiotic inclination to break his bones?” She asked in disbelief.

“I told Blaise that after the recent match where Draco had his ankle crushed, he would probably stay away from the extremities, but Blaise wagered the lad would still do anything to catch the Snitch in this match.” Neville explained with a sigh.

Unable to comment at the strange priority both young men seem to have, Hermione swiftly looked upfront again to see a few of Draco’s teammates flying upwards in attempt to break his fall. She knew that no spells were allowed on the pitch as they were against match rules, and there was nothing to break his fall if they didn’t catch him; he would likely break his bones in fact. Or be killed, which was a very likely consequence though no one had really ever died from Quiddich for centuries, she mused.

To Hermione’s relief, one of his Chasers, Auvray, reached a hand out and managed to grab him by the sleeve and quickly clasped another hand around Draco’s wrist to slow the freefalling descent. She was however a second too hasty to find a respite, as a Bludger suddenly whizzed upwards and struck at Auvray’s hand – breaking the Chaser’s phalanges and loosening his grip on Draco.

Hermione took a sharp intake of breath as Draco began tumbling down the air, hurtling like a Quaffle to the grounds. The entire stadium gasped again. Beside her, Ginny was just as agitated and anxious. “I know I play Quidditch and all, but I can’t bear to watch this as a spectator.”

“That is how I feel every time you play, Ginny.” Hermione managed out, almost croaking in her lack of voice from the dread that was racing in her veins. Her eyes were still trained on Draco.

Thankfully, the Magpies’ Beaters reached Draco in time – catching the falling wizard between them just before he could hit the 1000-ft mark. They flew close to the grounds, gradually descending to allow Draco onto the green pitch. Hermione noted with slight annoyance in the manner he still gracefully carried himself to land in utmost balance without so much of a stumble. As soon as he stood on both feet on his own, the Seeker pumped his fist into the air, opening his fingers to reveal the flutter of gold wings.

“AND THE SNITCH IS CAUGHT BY DRACO MALFOY!” Lee’s voice roared amongst the delighted screams of the Magpies fans. “What a brilliant underside manoeuvre and a fucking fantastic move of Malfoy’s to get the Snitch. Malfoy’s gone ahead and won us the match in style! TAKE THAT YOU PUDDLEMUDS!”

“We won!” Neville wildly applauded. Blaise hooted, grinning from ear to ear.

The stadium roared with equal zealousness as the Magpies’ flags stood tall. A chorus of singing broke out from one end of the pitch and soon all the home fans joined in for the team’s song. The familiar silver outlines of flying magpies streaked the skies, despite the blazes of lightning cutting across the night, to form the crest of the Montrose Magpies right in the middle of the stadium. The singing grew louder as the players reach the ground with their brooms; the Magpies swarmed around their Seeker while the Puddlemere team wiped dirt and sweat, some with streaks of blood, from their faces with the gloominess of defeat. Glorious sparkles of black and white showered the stadium.

Hermione exhaled and pulled her curled fingers away from her collarbone, where she had unknowingly been clutching to the edges of the collar of her jacket. Her heart returned to its leisurely beating pace.

“Shall we go down to greet the winners, and Oliver?” Ginny suggested. “Oh, stop looking so morose, Harry.” The redhead witch teasingly chided the dismal-looking Harry beside her.

Hermione picked up her satchel and shot an apologetic smile at her best friend. She knew how much of a fan Harry was of Puddlemere United. It wasn’t as much as Ron’s unyielding love, or in Hermione’s opinion – an unhealthy fixation, for the Chudley Cannons, but it was close enough that it mattered to Harry when the team lost.

“I can’t believe we lost.” Michael dejectedly said. He kept shaking his head, as if still doused in incredulity. “Mallorey was so close until Malfoy went ahead to flung himself at the Snitch.”

“Never underestimate a hell-bent Slytherin.” Blaise responded with a chuckle.

“Come on, let’s get going.” Neville cheerfully called out.

Ron gladly led the way with Neville and Blaise keeping up a steady stream of commentary with the redhead on the match, as the rest followed closely behind. The massive crowd of supporters who were also beginning to leave the stadium made it quite a rowdy affair with the cheering and singing as everyone made their way down the stands. It was however significantly easier to get down to the grounds than it was to get up to the stands, as all they had to do was to allow themselves be pushed along by the crowd.

“How have you been, Granger?” Terry asked as he fell into step beside her.

“I’ve been doing well, thanks.” She politely replied, giving a small smile. “I’ve heard that you are working for the Prophet’s Business and Commerce section. How is that going for you?”

“Loads of statistics and numerals.” Terry answered with a grimace. “We are also constantly liaising with Gringotts as well to check in on the Wizarding exchange trading funds, and it’s not an easy task to get the goblins to talk and explain the markets. They opt to be such monosyllabic beings.”

“That sounds like a daily challenge of your wits.”

“They don’t even laugh when I crack a joke with them. It’s as if their faces are permanently stuck with the same expression.” Terry pulled an impression of what Hermione assumed to be an expression of a deadpanned goblin, and Hermione laughed. Terry immediately grinned.

“The goblins are highly efficient and intelligent with what they do, so I suppose they’d desire to focus on their job rather than being humoured by the atrocious impersonations of yours.” She jested.

Terry feigned a scandalous look and placed his hand over his chest. “That wounds me, Granger.”

“You clearly need to work on your impressions.”

“I could do McGonagall.”

Her eyes shined with amusement. “You wouldn’t.”

Fixing his eyes on her with a slightly pinched expression, nostrils with a little flare and eyes narrowing slightly, and with a tinge of the Highlands accent lacing his lowered voice, Terry said, “I assure you that if you die, you need not hand in your homework.”

Mirth instantaneously tumbled from her lips as Hermione found she was unable to hold back her laughter. Terry’s impression wasn’t completely accurate, but his attempt in McGonagall’s well-loved sarcasm and his horrendous Scottish accent were still very much appreciated. She took a breath in, still grinning as she tugged at Terry’s jacket to pull him closer to her in avoidance of a lively group of young Magpies’ fans.

Noticing her gesture, Terry smiled, “Thanks, Granger.”

It was at that moment that she caught Blaise’s eyes when he looked over his shoulder and the onyx-coloured eyes took a brief of look on contemplation. She had expected to him say something but the wizard simply turned away with a slight curl of his lips.

“It’s always a hazard when we leave try to leave after a match.” Terry said, drawing Hermione’s attention. “Woah, watch out, Granger.” His hand gripped on her arm when the thin pole from a Puddlemere United banner almost knocked into her head. Hermione instinctively ducked.

“Sorry about that!” One of the fans who was carrying the large fluttering fabric called out as they hurried past.

“This is why I’ve never been fond of Quidditch.”

“Really?” Terry responded with surprise in his voice. “You looked really invested in the match though, especially when the Seekers were going for the Snitch.”

Her cheeks threatened a flush of rosy warmth at her apparently transparent reaction, but more so because she knew her supposed interest in the match was because _who_ was playing. 

_‘Merlin, he’s starting to get into my head.’_

Hermione shook her head, hard, as if trying to dispel the thoughts. Mentally, she was scrambling for a visualised door to dismiss the revelations aside and have them under lock and key – only she was unsuccessfully fumbling for a key.

“Are you alright?”

She guessed that she probably appeared barmy to Terry. Her lips quickly curved into a reassuring smile. “Yes. Sorry about that, I was momentarily distracted.”

“Is there something wrong?”

“No. Not at all.” Hermione reassured him just as they arrived by the players’ dressing room. Behind her, she felt a playful poke from Ginny, and she knew it was the younger witch’s non-verbal tease on how she had been conversing all the way from the stands with the former Ravenclaw and fellow DA member.

“Zabini.” Blaise elegantly stuck out his wand, forming his insignia, to be allowed into the players and team-only area.

“Welcome, Mr. Zabini.” The security wizard manning the entrance politely greeted. His glance shifted to the group for a moment before returning to the charmed floating parchment before him. “Mr. Malfoy’s allowance includes Mr. Longbottom, and Ms. Granger.”

Hermione could suddenly feel everyone’s eyes focusing on her. She willed herself not to fidget although she was just as thoroughly baffled by the unexpected declaration.

“Hermione?” Ron prompted, amusement lacing his tone of voice.

“Why are you allowed into the Magpies’ dressing room – _and_ as Malfoy’s permitted guest?” Michael voiced the question that was lingering on her tongue as well.

Harry’s green eyes were equally curious when she met his gaze. They were also coloured with unspoken mirth as if he knew something that she didn’t yet.

“Because she knows how utterly shite I am when it comes to not killing myself on the pitch.” Draco’s voice carried over from the back of the small group.

Hermione found herself meeting Draco’s trademark smirk as he made his way through with the rest of the Montrose Magpies.

She recalled seeing the team flying up to the stands again after the match, going around clapping their hands in an acknowledgment of gratitude to their fans for the support – which explained why the Quidditch players arrived to the room later than they did.

Distracted by the Magpies’ appearance, everyone started greeting the players, showering congratulations and compliments of a well-played match, even the ones who weren’t supporters of the team. Ginny struck up a lively conversation with Shawston while Harry and Ron were engaged with McIlroy and Sean Ramsey, one the Beaters. Terry and Michael appeared awestruck by the team as a whole. Neville and Blaise were already laughing and joking with Auvray, and it appeared to Hermione as a friendship that had been in existence for some time. She guessed that if both Neville and Blaise had access to the players’ dressing room, it wasn’t unusual that they would already be close to the team.

“Granger.”

Said witch turned her head to see Draco stopping in front of her, his hair was askew and sweat dripped from his face, but the Seeker still carried himself with an air of casual charm.

Now that he was near her, one of her first instincts was to quickly scan his entire being for signs of injury. Her fingers were already grasping her wand as her gaze scrutinised for any sign of blood or bruise. In her consternation for his most recent mishap, she casted a quick spell to ensure that his right ankle was still intact. Her wand glowed a gentle sage green, and it immediately alleviated the tweak of fretfulness within. Remembering the Bludger that met his shoulder during the match, Hermione wordlessly gestured for him to turn on his right. Draco obliged with quiet amusement in his silver grey orbs.

“How could you have been so daft as to take the Bludger in the shoulder you dislocated not too long ago?”

“We needed to score to keep up with the momentum.”

Hermione frowned. “And you decided to sacrifice your shoulder for that? How mighty noble of you.”

“I thought the Gryffindor in you might appreciate it.”

“You displayed more of a modicum of sensibility rather than being associated to our supposed House traits.” She crossly replied as she tapped her wand on his shoulder. The end of her wand emitted a soft hue of yellow. “We need to take a look at your shoulder. Your prior injury has resurfaced with the impact.”

“Come on then.” Draco’s fingers gently grasped around Hermione’s wrist to tug at her to follow him.

He led her past various rooms that included what looked similar to a hot sauna area, massage and physiotherapy, and even one that resembled a room for cryotherapy – Hermione was amazed with the various fitness and medical therapy facilities available and she was perplexed by Draco’s lack of trust in his medical team because surely a Quidditch team that fitted such facilities to take care of its players would have equally hired a bunch of professional Healers. Draco guided her to the main changing room and to her surprise – it smelled and looked nothing like rankled sweat and slobbery mess, instead, it was tidy and Spartan and smelled of fresh grass and peppermint.

The Seeker sat down on one of the middle benches and began to tug off his Quidditch gear. She looked around the room as he did so and noted one of the locker storages being Draco’s as it hinted with a few books on the top shelf and a familiar leather jacket hung within.

“You know, it really doesn’t hurt much.”

Hermione turned around and noticed that he had taken off the top of his Quidditch kit to examine his shoulder. His right fingers gingerly reached for the reddening skin that was taking on a hue of dark violet, and his expression immediately contorted in sheer pain when he tried to flex his shoulder. She snorted.

“You are a terrible liar, Malfoy.” With her wand withdrawn, Hermione flicked with an incantation as she focused on his shoulder. There was a small popping sound and Draco hissed. She quickly followed up with a cooling spell to ease the swelling and hopefully, to numb the pain. Her own fingers reached out and gently trailed his shoulder blade as if examining her spellwork of the nerves and ligaments within. Beneath her cold touch, his warm skin almost shivered with the contact and she almost laughed aloud at how terribly twitchy he can be when confronted with the cold.

“It’s not funny, Granger. Your hands are akin to freezing icicles.”

“Your skin is as heated as a dragon’s breath.”

“It is in my namesake.”

“You mean your mother named you after an enormous, scaly lizard with wings?”

“A dragon is _not_ a giant lizard.”

Hermione held back her laughter at his indignant response. “It’s the grandfather of all lizards.” She shrugged.

“That is affronting. Remind me to feed you to one of those grandfather lizards next time.”

“I reckon I should be the one to feed you to it.” She retorted with her hand still on his shoulder as she soothingly massaged the muscles beneath the skin. “At the rate that you’re going with your injuries, you might as well speed up the process and feed yourself to the dragons instead and be done with it.”

Her fingers continued in their ministrations as she briefly wondered if the Chinese traditional treatment of acupuncture would be better instead. His muscles were tensed and taut underneath her touch. Her fingers curled into a fist and she began to rub at the tension with her knuckles.

Draco chuckled. He relaxed into her touch and unknowingly had his head bent to his right with his eyes closed. His quiet mirth however, was bubbling from within and she could feel his body tremor with the terribly contained hilarity.

“What’s so funny?”

“Have you noticed, Granger – that your first reaction upon seeing me in person after the match was to confirm if I was okay?”

“It was only natural considering your habitual nature to injure yourself at Quidditch.”

“That you got shirty when you discover that I _was_ injured?”

Her eyebrows furrowed. “Yes.”

“And then you immediately set about to fixing me up?”

“Right.”

“Granger, you’ve been _conditioned_ to be my personal Healer.”

Her hand stopped as the words registered themselves. “Shite.”

Draco was already howling in laughter.

“You set me up! You only visited the bookshop when you had a severe injury that was enough to warrant my immediate attention. It’s not that you don’t trust your medic team, but you just wanted an excuse to get me to heal you. You insufferable git!” Her fingers bunched into a fist again and this time, she punched him hard in the shoulder.

“OW! Bloody hell, witch.”

“That slap in our third year will pale in comparison to this fist I’m going to greet your face with, Malfoy.”

Draco quickly held up his hands. “Stop, wait.”

“Why? Do you need to write a _will_?” She seethed.

“I really don’t trust much of our medical team as they tend to slack off with a thorough examination of our injuries – that was not a lie. I did however, waited for opportune moments to visit the bookshop.”

“It’s a _bleeding_ bookshop, Malfoy. You don’t need a reason to visit it. Buy a book, or read one, or linger among the shelves and breathe in the scent of ink and papers.”

She raised her fists again, pulling one arm back in ready stance. Draco held out one hand in her way, a carefree and playful smirk still on his lips. She wasn’t sure if he was being obtuse but that smirk of his was very much capable of doubling the probability of getting punched in the face.

“I _did_ need one.” He explained. “After I stormed out of our second meeting at Scripts and Scribbles.”

Hermione stopped short.

“For the record, Scripts and Scribbles is a place I frequent before you even knew of it, and I wasn’t going to allow some fucked up meeting stop me from visiting the place.”

“Do you really need to use expletives?”

“It does wonders to one’s articulation.”

“You have a bizarre logic.”

“As I was saying – I couldn’t bring myself to just return to the bookshop with some sodding apology for something that I didn’t felt as if I owed you one. Not that you were completely at fault either. I recognised that your reaction was almost second-nature considering our history back in Hogwarts. So I had to figure out a reason for me to visit again. Getting you to heal my injury seemed a good option at that time – we easily avoided the awkward greetings.”

“Please tell me you didn’t let that Bludger hit you in the face for that. That would have been utterly ridiculous.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “No. I do have some leftover dignity, Granger.”

“With the years of your professional career in Quidditch, I presumed whatever resemblance you had of it was bludgeoned to oblivion.”

“It’s a miracle I still have a smidgen of it left then.” He dryly said.

“Right. So you waited till you had a basis, and you did, and we cleared the misunderstanding. But what about those times after? The dislocated shoulder, the broken ankle. That – _preposterous_ deed of jumping off your broom?”

A grin appeared. “Those were just speculative attempts in conditioning you.”

Her punch swiftly met its intended target.

“Granger! Have you gone absolutely mental?” She watched as Draco grimaced, his lips curling into a slight snarl as he examined his shoulder. “Just so you know, that really _bloody_ hurts.”

“You do _not_ go launching yourself off brooms and giving others heart attack just to condition someone. Honestly. Do you have the faintest idea what it does to one’s nerves?”

“I reckon I do. Apparently it causes one to be bleeding violent with an already injured person.”

A small smile of satisfaction appeared, though the guilt was also starting to gnaw at her conscience. Her right fist loosened its grip as Draco tried to shift his shoulder in a circle as if to examine if he was even still capable of moving it after the two forceful punches he received. He briefly shot her a dark look.

Relenting, Hermione reached into her satchel and dug up a little pot of the salve she usually carried around with her. She held it up to Draco’s face.

“Attempting to poison me with that?”

“I wouldn’t make it _that_ obvious if I was going to murder you. It’s highly likely I’d go down the silent slayer route if I did. Snuff you out when you least expect it and have you buried beyond six feet under with an untraceable charm and a scent-camouflage placed on your corpse.”

“It’s charming to know that you’ve planned for my murder.”

“I like to prepare ahead of time. It keeps things organised.”

“I was in your thoughts? Think about me loads, don’t you?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. It means you’re a complete nuisance to get over.”

“As long as I’m in your head, I’ll take what I can get.”

Hermione made a face. “How do you get by with so much narcissism within you?”

“It helps that I _am_ good looking.”

“Awfully sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

He smirked, finally taking the salve from her hands. “No one has ever accused me of lacking in self-confidence.”

“I believe you have mistaken bumptiousness for confidence.”

Draco emitted a chuckle as he began to haphazardly apply the salve over his shoulder. “I can assure you that my vocabulary is just as expansive and conversant with the lexicon as yours is.”

“Here, let me help you.” She said. Her tongue held back her intended comment on how he was slathering on the medicinal relief as if he was applying sunscreen lotion – too much and without a concern if he was reaching the right spots. His fingers gladly remove themselves from his shoulder as hers took over. She made sure to gently knead the pads of her fingers against his skin with soothing circular motions.

“Draco! There you are. We’ve been looking all over for you!”

Hermione looked up in surprise at the sudden voice. Her gaze was met with a witch and a wizard dressed in the black and white coloured robes of the Montrose Magpies. In their hands were matching medical cases and she concluded that they were possibly part of the medic team.

“We need to take a look at you to make sure that you’re alright after the match.” The wizard said again as he walked over. “Are you hurt anywhere? Anything broken or bruised? Any sprains or pulled muscles?”

“How are your hamstrings and anconeus muscles? Shall we start with a cooling charm?”

“Would you need a massage to loosen any tightness that you feel? We’ll arrange for a session after this so you can have a better sleep tonight. Perhaps prescribe a relaxant potion in case you need it, as Lynch and Sean both required after the match today.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

“Are you feeling any light-headedness or nausea?” The mediwitch added. “How’s your heartbeat?”

“Feeling any chills, Draco?”

Hermione took a step forward, effectively blocking their reach of Draco. “Excuse me for saying this, but wouldn’t it be best to foremost inspect him yourselves?”

“Ms. Granger, isn’t it?” The mediwizard sardonically asked. “I’ve heard that you are one of St. Mungo’s best Residents, but outside of the institution you’d be a civilian and this here – these grounds are under my care. And the players are my charges, as is Draco.”

An acerbic retort crept to the edge of her tongue. “You can’t possibly just besiege with him questions and expect him to rattle off an answer for you. The appropriate procedure is to do a full body scan spell while checking on his primary vital signs.”

“Step aside please, Ms. Granger.”

Hermione stood firm against the gentle nudge from the mediwitch. “I’m afraid not. I’ve done the necessary for him and he’s much better now, especially his shoulder if you recall – it took a massive hit from the Bludger. Considering his recent dislocated shoulder, I made sure there was no trauma to the nerve system of his anconeus muscle. The contusion from the collision will ease within the next fifteen minutes. His fall from over 6,000 feet made no distinct impact on his being, but I’ll be sure to monitor his vitals.”

The mediwitch bristled. “You are not his Healer, Ms. Granger.”

“I may not be his Healer, but I am a better Healer.” She knew she was being awfully protective of the patient in mention, but she couldn’t resist challenging them at their examination logic which certainly wasn’t conducive. Besides, she did heal Draco a few times to know well enough of his physical state of health, and it exasperated her to no end that they weren’t posing their questions based on his latest injuries to ensure there were no recurrence or further damage. She also didn’t appreciate the thought of them prodding and poking him without a proper shred of intelligence on decent healing. They were too quickly presumptuous as they were dismissive.

“Ms. Granger, I am going to have to ask you to remove yourself immediately from these premises before I lose my patience with your insolence.”

Hermione frowned. She sensed Draco standing up, his fingers brushing against her right palm. The Seeker said nothing however, and she was grateful for that – he seemed to recognise that this was hers to defend and he wouldn’t debase her by stepping in.

In fact, she would have turned her anger onto him if he did try to step in; there were battles she could fight on her own and Hermione Granger didn’t believe in relying on others to defend her. She had fortitude, and she wasn’t afraid of being herself. 

“I am a permitted guest of a player for the Montrose Magpies. That gives me enough permission to remain within the Magpies’ authorised premises for a guest, should I seek to do so. Therefore I shall not be intimidated by a veiled threat. I will however, refrain from discrediting the both of you any further, therefore I will take my leave and _he_ will be leaving with me.”

She turned around to meet Draco’s gaze and he simply nodded, an affirmative look crossing his features. He charmed his kit to be tossed into the waiting cleaning baskets and summoned his satchel and clothes from his locker.

“Come on, I can stop by the showers on our way out before we leave.” Draco offered. He gave a nod to the astounded Healers of his medical team. “Healer Roschen and Healer Holding, I’ll see you both at training on Monday.”

With Draco following closely behind her, Hermione walked out of the players’ changing room with her head held high. She kept walking for the next few seconds until she realised she had no idea where the shower room that Draco had referred to was. She stopped short and whipped around to see Draco biting back his lower lip to hide his immense mirth.

“You don’t have the slightest clue where the shower room is, do you?” Draco asked. Steel grey orbs were filled with quiet laughter.

“No.” She admitted, feeling slightly foolish that she had practically forcibly dragged away a half-dressed Draco Malfoy from of his own medical team.

“Straight ahead, turn to your right. There’s a lounge room two doors down to your left, you could wait there if you’d prefer. I’ll find you after I’ve cleaned up.”

He gave her a small lingering smile, one that was amused yet almost affectionate.

Hermione nodded and turned around, following Draco’s instructions, and feeling an unexpected rush of warmth in her cheeks. Her left hand clutched tightly onto the shoulder strap of her satchel while her right reached up to brush against her cheek. A thought crossed her mind and her fingers unfurled as she looked down at her open palm. Her sensory picked up on a particular memory and if it was possible, she felt the same warm sensation trickling up her neck and onto her ears. She knew that if she were to look at her reflection right now, her ears would have taken on a shade of red.

_‘Have I gone mad?’_

The witch looked over her shoulder and to her surprise; Draco was still standing where she had left him. His smile unabashedly widened even though he was caught watching her. Hermione swiftly turned her head again and reminded herself to flipping breathe and find her composure before she gave herself a brain aneurysm.


	7. Chapter 7

Dressed in pressed black trousers and a dark turquoise shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the Montrose Magpies’ Seeker who had just clinched a win for his team was undeniably attracting the attention of their fellow late diners. Of course there were also the presences of Puddlemere United’s Keeper, Holyhead Harpies’ Chaser and the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice to boost the reason of anyone’s interest with the particular table.

Draco’s grey eyes glinted with sarcasm and humour as he conversed with their group of friends; even Ron was easing up despite being slightly frosty when dinner began, but after the second round of whisky – the redhead wizard was evenly meeting Draco’s gaze and acknowledged the latter as they spoke about Quidditch. The topic of their conversation was expected, considering the sheer number of players of the sport, be it as an extra-curricular, or for leisure or professional, at the table.

Hermione was disengaged from the conversation that was bouncing back and forth around her; Blaise’s and Ginny’s voices were talking over each other’s as Michael and Ron laughed at something Ginny said to correct Blaise. Throughout the past two hours, she had found herself strangely interested in discreetly watching Draco as they dined with their former schoolmates. Her observations weren’t just limited to him, but to the people around him as well.

The ladies were sharing soft exchanges of adulated smiles and giggles while the men were looking over with unspoken esteem. Two children, a pair of siblings, had even shyly but very much bravely gone up to Draco to ask if he would sign their Magpies’ shawl. He gladly obliged, and even posed for a photo with the server for their table when the nervous young man asked. When Neville spilled his drink, consequently almost splashing Draco, the platinum-blonde haired wizard easily waved off Neville’s apology before murmuring ‘ _Scourgify_ ’ to clean both the tablecloth and Neville’s shirt. His laughter was easy and almost infectious each time Blaise made a caustic remark with subtle drollery, and when Harry gave a comical imitation of the England national players’ and their pre-match rituals. He even seem to share some sort of inside joke with Neville when Terry commented on Puddlemere’s match strategy – the former Slytherin and Gryffindor had exchanged matching looks of knowing smirks. Even Oliver Wood was animatedly talking, or if Hermione had to aptly term it – bantering, with Draco as they fired off good-humoured quips and mockery at each other.

He was different from the boy she knew at Hogwarts.

She realised that she was getting to know Draco Malfoy all over again.

Shaking her head as if to scatter her thoughts, Hermione forced her gaze away from the young man seated diagonally opposite of her. The group was done with their meal and was simply enjoying a few rounds of drinks as they conversed. She looked to the almost empty glass of elderflower wine in front of her and when she did so, she caught the shift of Draco’s hand out of the corner of her eye. Instinctively, she looked up again and this time – his gaze met hers. She managed a smile for him when he quirked an amused eyebrow. She inwardly chided herself for suddenly being hyperaware of his every action.

“Hermione, would you like another glass of wine?” Terry asked.

“That’s quite alright. I’ll just finish this one and have a glass of water.”

“Rubbish.” Ron chimed in. “That’s barely your third glass of drinks. I know your tolerance is more than that, Hermione.”

“Not _everyone_ enjoys guzzling alcohol at a rapid pace, Ron.” She teased.

“Another drink then, Hermione?” Oliver offered, already calling over the server. “What will you have?”

“Knotgrass Mead, please.” She said to the server with a polite smile.

“What _is_ Hermione’s tolerance for alcohol?” Oliver asked Ron with an intrigued expression.

“Six rounds. Depending on her choice mixture of drinks.” Ron grinned. “The last time she threw up, it was after a couple rounds of Butterbeer, mead and whisky.”

“Wasn’t that after she punched Draco in the face?” Neville asked, turning in interest. “I’ve heard about that from Harry.”

“You punched Malfoy? Again?” Terry repeated with utmost amazement as he looked at her. “I thought what you did in our third year was brilliant by the way.”

“She did not punch me.” Draco shot Neville a glare. “Her hands were flailing and I was the unlucky bloke who walked past and met her knuckles.”

“Constituted as a punch, all the same.” Neville cheerfully answered.

Draco looked to Harry. “Do you make it a habit to go around telling people that Granger assaulted me, _again_?”

Harry chuckled. “The story makes a really good conversation starter.”

“I _still_ have a reputation to protect, Potter.”

“Being punched by the smartest witch of our generation makes an inimitable character reference for one’s life curriculum vitae, I reckon.” Blaise smirked. Draco scowled in response.

“I’d agree to the bit on the smartest witch of our generation. Have always thought that without Hermione, Harry would have lost a few of his appendages from Quidditch.” Oliver joked. “A bit of a bampot that one.”

“I could have managed to take care of myself just fine.”

“With _oculus reparo_?” Ginny snickered. “It’s the only recovery spell you’ve actually picked up to master.”

Hermione hid her laugh behind her hand, but everyone else erupted into unreserved laughter at the sheepish-looking raven-haired wizard.

“Shall we toast to the smartest witch of our generation then? The brains of the Golden Trio who got us out of our constant skirmishes with Voldemort?” Ron said, grinning as he lifted his glass of whisky. “Without her, we probably wouldn’t be here.”

“For keeping Harry safe on the Quidditch pitch and off.” Oliver lifted his glass.

“For managing Ron’s emotional range of a teaspoon.” Ginny smirked, earning another chorus of laughter from the table.

“For providing all the answers to the questions of the professors and consequently saving all of us from having to answer in class.” Neville grinned.

“For assaulting Draco Malfoy – twice.” Michael chimed in.

Draco rolled his eyes and Hermione had to smile at that.

“I’d rather suggest a toast to all of us instead,” Hermione finally spoke up. Her gaze slowly met each of her friends’, “For being here, being together in this time and moment, for being who you are –” Draco’s steel grey eyes were the last that she found, “and for being alive.”

Draco’s stare levelled with hers as he lifted his glass, nodding his head in acknowledgement. She smiled at him and his lips diminutively lifted upwards at the edges.

Harry grinned, gently nudging Hermione’s elbow as he lifted his glass to follow suit. “To all of us.”

“To all of us.” Ron affirmed.

Dinner continued with another two rounds of drinks before Hermione decided to call it a night. She was tired from the day and as much as she’d have liked to stay in the company of her friends, she would still rather curl up in her favourite alcove with a hot tea and a book. As she stood up, excusing herself with affectionate smiles and warm hugs for her schoolmates, Terry kindly offered to leave with her.

“Thank you for offering, but I reckon that’s not necessary. I can see myself home.”

“How about staying over for the night? It’s been a while since you’ve been up in the Highlands.” Harry suggested. “We could stay at Oliver’s.”

“Yes, thanks for inviting yourself over, Harry. I suppose you assumed that I had extra blankets and pillows for you tonight?”

“And breakfast tomorrow too.”

“Oy.”

The group laughed.

“On that note, I will refrain from a self-invite to your place tonight, Oliver.” Hermione said, smiling. “It was lovely seeing you though, and you played really well tonight.”

The Scottish wizard stood up, reaching out to Hermione to give her a hug. “Same here. Always enjoyed catching up with an intelligent, bonnie lass. I’ll visit you in Cardiff next weekend, aiblins?”

“What is he trying to say?” Ron turned to Neville.

“Aiblins is an aged Scottish word for perhaps. Used in the 18th century.” Draco answered, standing up as if he was taking his leave too. Hermione was surprised by his action as she had assumed he would stay longer to catch up with Blaise.

Ron shook his head. “Blimey. 18th century and this bloke here is still using it. Just how _old_ are you actually, Oliver?”

“Haud yer wheesht, Ron.”

With uncontained laughter, Ron asked in between his burst of mirth, “What is he saying again?”

“It means be quiet or he’ll have your head.” Ginny mischievously said.

Oliver grinned, “Close enough, Ginny.”

“Are you leaving as well, Draco?” Blaise nonchalantly asked as he took another swig of his drink.

Hermione watched as Draco collected his jacket, jumper and scarf, and her own cape jacket as well.

“I’m knackered from the match. I’ll call it a night and head back to Cardiff.” Draco walked over to her side and handed her jacket to her. “Would you like to leave together, Granger?”

“That –”

“Would be helpful.” Harry finished. He looked to Draco with an encouraging nod. Hermione narrowed her gaze at her best friend but he pointedly avoided meeting her eyes. “Would you mind just making sure she’s safely back in the bookshop before you leave?”

“Do you not care about my well-being, Harry? You’re leaving me in _his_ care?”

“Your utmost lack of faith in me is astounding, Granger.”

Hermione decidedly ignored Draco’s comment. “May I have a word with you, Harry?” Her best friend gladly stood up and allowed himself to be tugged to a corner for some form of decent privacy. “What are you trying to do?” She demanded in a low voice.

“It was either him or Terry Boot. You _know_ Ginny will get Terry to accompany you back to Cardiff.” Harry whispered back. “And by the looks of it, Terry is ready to ask you for a date as well. I’m only trying to save you from the hassle.”

“I appreciate the thought, but Malfoy?”

“You’re both going back to Cardiff. It makes better sense than say, asking Neville if he could see you home instead.” Harry suddenly smirked. “Why – is there something between you and Malfoy?”

“No.” She answered almost too quickly and immediately regretted it.

“Both of you have been sneaking and sharing looks all evening. The tension was almost electrifying.”

“You’ve been reading Ginny’s romance novels, haven’t you?”

“They make good bedtime material to knock me off to sleep.” Harry jested, not the least fazed. “Have you seen the way he looks at you?” He shook his head, smiling. “You’re not the only one who has been observing all night, Hermione.”

She dismissively shook her head. “I reckon I can go home on my own just fine, Harry. We’re just a Floo or an apparition away.”

“It’d ease my worry if you had someone with you. Please?”

A sigh escaped her with the expectant look that Harry was giving her. “Alright.” She relented.

“Send me a note when you’re back. I’ll have Hedwig to wait up for you.”

“You don’t trust him just as much, do you?” Her voice bordered on the edge of amusement. Harry shrugged, smiling with feigned innocence.

Hermione returned to the table with Harry following closely beside her. Draco lifted an eloquent eyebrow in question and she wordlessly nodded. They excused themselves from the group and within seconds, she found herself standing out in the midst of the Hogsmeade pathways. Feeling a nip of the night’s coldness, she brought her hands to her lips and gently blew into them.

“Don’t you have a pair of gloves with you, Granger?”

She shook her head.

“I suppose you’re just going to have to let your hands freeze then.”

Her response to his words was a scowl gracing her features. Draco merely chuckled, unfazed by her irritation. He pulled on his gloves, a smug and contented smile on his lips. She briefly wondered if there was anyone else who could possibly be as maddening as he was being.

“How did you know I would be at the match to allow me permission to the players’ dressing room?”

“Ginevra told me.” The Seeker distractedly replied as he adjusted his gloves.

“You know she hates it when anyone calls her that?”

“That is _exactly_ why I do it.” Draco grinned. His gaze dropped to her hands again before shifting to her meet her brown orbs. “Shall we drop by Honeydukes before we leave?”

“So you can get some sweet treats for yourself while my hands freeze up?” Hermione retorted as she snugly slipped her hands into the pockets of her jacket. A soft sigh of relief escaped her as her skin was enveloped by the warmth from a heating charm she had casted much earlier for her pockets.

“So we can get you a cup of hot chocolate with peppermint frost actually.”

“Oh.”

Draco threw a smirk in her direction before turning around and began his walk towards the sweet shop. She hurried to catch up, falling into step beside him.

“That toast you made earlier in the evening.” Draco spoke up as he gave her a side glance, as if testing the waters he was about to thread in.

“What about it?”

“You were awfully obvious that you were feeling uncomfortable with the initial toast and you changed it to redirect the toast. Why’s that?”

She shrugged, schooling her surprise into deadpan. “I didn’t think it was that noticeable.” Harry’s words about how she wasn’t the only one keeping up with the observations came to mind.

“I have always thought you fancied getting compliments and showers of commendation and admiration.”

“You must have mistaken me for you.”

He smirked. “Come on now, Granger. Let’s not change the topic.”

She sharply exhaled. “It didn’t felt right taking all the credit.”

“You do deserve _some_ of them. Such as putting up with the foolhardy redhead of a best friend of yours.”

“His _name_ is Ron. And no, I don’t feel comfortable with those words. They were too – glorified and embellished.” She said, shrugging.

“Because you still think that in the end, you failed them – the people whom we’ve lost along the way and during the war?”

“Everyone deserves to be acknowledged.” She quietly said. “And the opportunity to live, and to be. I was just lucky that I could.”

Draco stopped. “Are you bloody fucking serious, Granger?” He looked at her in disbelief.

“Language, Malfoy.”

“You are not lucky to be alive, you _deserve_ to be alive.” Draco replied, ignoring her chiding comment. “Feel entitled, Granger. After everything you’ve done for Potter and Weasley, for the Order, for your parents, do you really think of yourself any less?”

Hermione bristled. Annoyance crept from beneath her skin. “I am fully aware of my worth, Malfoy.”

“For someone who is brimming with confidence, your actions certainly speak otherwise.”

“Don’t you dare take that condescending tone with me.” Her temper flared. “I went to a boarding school with at least three quarters of a magical student body, while there I was with little to no experience with magic. I had to adapt to a completely different world from the one I knew in the 11 years of my life, and tolerated every insult that came hurling my way. Even before that, I was constantly known as a swotty bushy-haired child in my public school, but I persisted and I proved everyone wrong. I _know_ I am competent as a witch and a Muggle.”

“So explain your self-denial.”

“It’s not self-denial. It’s called self-reflection, Malfoy.” She spat out. “Is it wrong of me to stop and wonder why things are the way they are? When was it decided that _I_ deserve to be alive? That Remus and Tonks didn’t? And Fred who was only a month into being 20, when _he_ was killed?”

Draco recoiled for a moment, looking as if he had been slapped. She knew her words were callous and bitter. To his credit however, the wizard quickly recovered and took a step forward as if in retaliation of her attempt to intimidate him.

“Life and Death. The two entities of nature that determine when and who and how.” Draco’s next words were marked with fury. “It has _nothing_ do with you so don’t let your head get inflated with that ego of yours assuming that you had a hand in who gets to live and not. Stop _fucking_ blaming yourself.”

Livid, Hermione almost growled but the wizard next to her simply stared her down with a sneer. It didn’t help that he was taller and she had to pull her chin up to defiantly return his stare.

“Look, all that I’m saying is that I know how you are fighting with the demons of your past, but don’t bleeding drag your own personal hell up here. If you keep doing that, you’d hurt your present and the people around you now – who are still alive, and with you.”

With that, Draco turned and continued his way to Honeydukes. Hermione watched his leaving form, taking in the stiffly broad shoulders that carried his indignant aura. She swallowed hard. Deep inside, she knew he was right; she was allowing her guilt to constantly consume her and though it wasn’t always evident, but she was indeed spending too much time wallowing in the regret of what could have been if she did something differently. It was a constant internal battle of guilt and responsibility.

Taking a few deep breaths as she counted to sixty, Hermione gathered her wits and followed in the direction that Draco had taken.

When she arrived at Honeydukes, the sweet shop still being open for the weekend crowd, Draco was already at the counter having a placed a request for a hot chocolate. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and dropped a few Sickles onto the counter top. She watched him from the doorway, stepping aside to let a couple to pass through. As soon as the hot chocolate was served, Draco murmured a wandless spell and she was startled by his thoughtfulness as she observed the constant wisps of steam from the top of the drink. He turned around, meeting her gaze, and her first instinct had been to offer him an apologetic, slightly embarrassed smile.

“Here.” He frostily said as he walked up to her, offering the tall takeaway cup in his hand.

The scent of peppermint and sweet cocoa immediately invaded her olfactory senses as the comforting heat from the drink seeped through the cup and into her skin. It was hot but it wasn’t scalding; as she had guessed, he had charmed the drink to consistently retain its heat but without being blistering enough to burn her tongue or hands. Hermione gladly took a sip of the beverage. It was a delightful welcome in comparison to the alcohol in her system.

“Thank you.” She offered.  
  
His gaze shifted and Hermione knew it would be a quiet journey back if that was all she said. She waited until they had stepped out of Honeydukes before speaking again.

“And I’m sorry – I truly am.” He didn’t turn to look at her, simply matching his steps to hers. “You were right. I was being terribly foolish.”

“You were punishing yourself for something that wasn’t completely your fault.” Draco finally answered.

She nodded, inwardly breathing in relief that he was still talking to her. “I was. I suppose it became a self-deprecating habit.”

“Don’t go at it on your own, Granger.”

Hermione turned to look at him, smiling as she recalled the words that she had told him not too long ago. “You know, you’re not too bad to talk to.”

Draco lifted an eyebrow. “After the many conversations we’ve had over the past month or more, you only come to that realisation, _now_?”

“I try not to pass off quick judgements.” She jested.

“I was going to imply a slow mental acuity or a lack of capability in defining social interactions on your part, but I supposed that deficiency of superficial thoughts would work just as well.”

“I can’t decide if you are insulting or complimenting me.”

“Like I’ve said before, I give out compliments sparingly.” He gently nudged her by the shoulders and she chuckled before nudging him back. “Would you like to visit Hogwarts, Granger?”

“At this hour?” She asked as she took another long sip of her hot chocolate.

“Well no. Perhaps we could come back next week and make a random trip to Scotland just to visit our school, instead of now when we are already here in the village right next to it.”

She rolled her eyes at Draco’s sarcasm. “I meant that as a genuine question out of the possibility that the school grounds are closed to visitors at this hour.”

“Didn’t you know that Hogwarts allows its teaching alumni to visit the school so as long as the Headmaster or Headmistress permits it? I assumed they would have mentioned that in your favourite book, Hogwarts, A History.”

“Have you read it?”

“Merlin, no. Can’t be bothered with that dull, thick tome.”

“Don’t mock the book if you haven’t read it. It contains a great deal about Hogwarts with plenty of intriguing and insightful facts. To which none of them mentioned of that trivia of yours.”

Draco grinned. “Secrets only a teaching alumnus would know. Come on, Granger.” He offered his arm and she recognised it as a gesture of invite to a side-along apparition.

“What about my beverage?”

“I promise not a drop of that chocolate goodness will be spilled.” He shot her a smirk and pulled out his wand to tap at the edge of her cup. “Come on now.”

Hermione took his offered arm and grasped it closely to her. Within seconds, the familiar feeling of being tightened and expanded through a wormhole course through her body and when she opened her eyes again, they were standing at the grand, imposing doors that led into the castle. Memories flooded her and she had to take a deep breath in.

“Alright there, Granger?” Draco was looking at her, a colour of concern in his slate grey orbs.

The former Gryffindor nodded. “There are just so many memories here. The good ones, mostly.” She quickly added as if in an afterthought. She didn’t want him to think she was associating their return to the Battle of Hogwarts although she remembered the wall where a blast had taken place and almost injured Oliver and Angelina when they were battling the Death Eaters. She took a sip of her hot chocolate to distract her thoughts. It was still deliciously warm, and as Draco promised, not a drop was spilled with the charm he placed on it.

“There are always the bad and good memories.” He replied, as if knowing what was running through her mind. “We could always leave if you want to.”

“No. I’d very much like it if we stayed for a bit.”

He nodded in response. Together, they walked down the familiar hallways; stopping at the Great Hall to marvel at the enchanted ceiling and the long tables they used to sit, going up and crossing the moving staircases to the classrooms. Nearly Headless Nick cheerfully greeted her and she had stopped to speak to the ghost, though Draco lingered a few paces behind.

When they passed the Room of Requirement, Draco’s stature stiffened and Hermione knowingly tugged at his jacket to pull him away.

“Thank you.” He quietly said as they made their way to the Astronomy tower.

“We didn’t come here to recall our mistakes.” She simply responded as she let go. “What’s your favourite memory of being here, Malfoy?”

He looked at her for a moment and she raised an eyebrow. An inelegant snort escaped him and she cracked a smile.

“Our first flying lesson. I got to show off _and_ I bested you at something. You couldn’t summon your broom at will.” A mischievous grin appeared at his features.

“Figures you’d pick a memory that’d annoy me.” Hermione gave a mock affronted look.

“I also particularly liked our fifth year when the Weasley twins set off those fireworks at our final exams. Have to give credit to those loony muppets for creatively heckling Umbridge.”

“I thought you liked Umbridge, what with being in her ridiculous and atrocious Inquisitorial Squad and all.”

“I simply tolerated her so she wouldn’t be bothered about us Slytherins. It was a distraction. Instead of openly going against her outlandish decrees and consequently landing ourselves as a target of her scorn, it was easier to be in her good graces while maintaining all that shite that we still get to pull off.”

“That’s rather cunning of you.”

“That’s the thing about you lot of Gryffindors. Always leaping before strategising.”

Hermione laughed. “I believe the idiom goes look before you leap.”

“What were your favourite memories, Granger?”

She took a moment to sift through her thoughts before settling on a few.  Smiling, she recalled, “Our first year when Harry and Ron saved me from the troll. The first time we visited Hogsmeade. The day I casted my first Patronus. And the night we saved both Buckbeak and Sirius in our third year.”

“I’m surprise the smack you gave me in our third year is not on that list.”

“Close enough. It ranks after those, and shares the spot with the one where you were turned into a ferret.”

A deep scowl was set on Draco’s face and Hermione laughed again. “That was one of my worst memories.”

“Did you found yourself with ferret-like tendencies after that?”

“My senses were heightened for a day, which wasn’t delightful when you were in a boarding school and shared a room with four other lads.”

Hermione grimaced on his behalf. “I did think that was an inappropriate punishment from a teaching staff, though it wasn’t really Professor Moody behind it.”

“I’d still take fourth year over my sixth.”

She watched him for a moment and noticed how his lips had drawn to a thin line and his jaw was clenched. “Did you enjoy the Yule Ball at least?” She asked, hoping to distract him from his train of thoughts.

“Do you mean if I’ve noticed you during the Yule Ball?”

“Does it look I’m particularly concern if you did?” She deadpanned.

The Quidditch player smirked. “Shall I be honest with you?”

Hermione placed a hand over her heart and gave a dramatic gasp. “Have you been lying to me this whole time?”

“You are awfully dramatic when you want to be, Granger.”

“Well bloody stop stalling and just get on with it, Malfoy.”

“How is it that you get to say bloody yet I get the evil eye if I say fuck?” Draco demanded in confusion.

“The former’s less crude than the latter.”

“So it’s decorum?”

“Personal preference.”

“You are bizarre, Granger. Charming, but bizarre.”

Hermione found her cheeks feeling warm at his words and she hoped she wasn’t turning an evident blush of red. It certainly was bizarre for her to be reacting to his words in such a manner, and she reminded herself to refrain from acting like a babbling, bumbling baboon as Professor McGonagall had once so eloquently put it.

“The Yule Ball?” She prompted again.

“Yes, I _did_ notice you.” He drawled, giving a small smile. “You left me rather speechless to be honest.” Her eyebrows shot up in scepticism and he chuckled. “The tosser in me didn’t have a single word of insult for you that night.”

Hermione almost fumbled for a reply. “That was not what I was expecting.”

“Well, did _you_ think I was rather dashing in my fancy dress robes that night?”

She rolled her eyes and Draco laughed. His laughter carried its easy mirth around her and into the night as they reached the top of the tower.

“You didn’t look too bad yourself.” She offered.

“Being particularly stingy with your compliments, aren’t you?” He jested.

“I wasn’t really paying attention to you. It would have been rude to disregard my date for the night.”

“Ah yes.” Draco smirked. “The famous Quidditch player – Viktor Krum.”

“You sound as if you weren’t one of his ardent admirers.”

“Krum’s talented and he’s got brilliant broom skills, but I wouldn’t say the same in the social context. What was it that he called you again?”

Hermione unconsciously tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, half-embarrassed and the other in amusement of the memory. “Herm-own-ninny. But in his defence, the name’s a tongue twister for someone who’s not a native English speaker.”

“That’s pants. Hermione’s a Greek name, and the Slavic languages are just as much of a tongue-twister.”

The upwards curve of her lips grew with the way he said her name; it was the first time she had ever heard it from Draco. She turned around to look at the sky while schooling her expression to one of careless amusement.

“Regardless of his linguistics, Viktor was a pleasant date and a good friend.”

“Do you still keep in touch with him?” The Seeker asked as he leaned onto the edge of the tower, also looking up at the sky above them. She shifted her gaze to him and noticed the way his eyes scanned the canvas of stars.

“We still write to each other. And we meet for tea whenever he’s in London.”

“Right.” Draco answered, albeit stiffly. He cleared his throat and pointed up, drawing an invisible line in the darkness.

From her Astronomy classes, she knew what his index finger was forming. She had spotted Eltanin and Rastaban, and the constellation was circumpolar and even in the November sky, as dim as it may be with the frost and chill – it was always to be seen. Grey eyes shifted to meet hers, and she met his gaze with a smile.

“Draco.”

The constellation’s namesake seemed to be trying to fight down his smile, but failing absolutely miserably. Her smile widened to a grin as mirth threatened to take over her as she watched him attempt to keep his unaffected composure. Draco exhaled sharply, as if appearing to give up, and allowed a chuckle to escape him. There was a palpable eclectic air of playfulness, warmth, mirth, and fondness between them.

She continued to watch the dark canvas above their heads. A smile lifted her lips as she felt the breeze sweeping past them as the stars continue to shine in their playful invite to be admired. There was silence between them, but a companionable one where no words were really needed.

_‘I never knew he was capable of being quiet instead of running that snarky mouth of his. The things one learns every day.’_

Her glee was reflected with one of her quiet grins. She allowed the next minutes to pass them by in stillness as they continue to bask in the wonders of the night sky before she finally broke it with a question.  

“Did you know that Draco’s Greek as well? It’s one of the Greek constellations.”

“So _both_ our names are with Greek origins.” Draco replied. “Fascinating.”

“Who would have thought that we would have something in common?” She teased, nudging him in the elbow.

“That, and books.” With that, Draco reached into his black satchel to pull out a bound printed material. “Here.” He said with a disarming smile.

A small, giddy laugh escaped Hermione as she recognised his gesture. She was beginning to look forward to this habit of his, and had been wondering when he would present another book filled with his musings. She took in the cover as she accepted the book from the wizard beside her.

“Alias Grace, from Atwood.” She read aloud. “You keep surprising me with your choices of books.”

“And you have an awfully boring choice of reading list. I would take Dungsworth and Pique any day over Tolkien and Atwood.”

“Wizarding over Muggle, I see?”

“I appreciate the occasional Gaiman, but Merlin help me – these two Muggle authors of yours have such convoluted vocabulary and zealous imagination.” He shook his head. “Though it does explain that personality of yours. I wouldn’t expect any less from a swotty witch with a colossal vocabulary to comment, insult or simply to intimidate.”

The book in her hands immediately greeted the back of his head with a satisfying thump.

“Ow! Will you _stop_ hitting me?” He hissed.

“You give off this vibe that simply encourages one to hit you, or to throw something at your head, whichever comes first.”

“I do not.” Draco indignantly retorted.

“You should hear yourself when you speak. It’s satisfyingly exasperating enough to convince me to raise a fist.”

Draco snorted. “Come on. Let’s get going before you decidedly swap your profession from a bookshop owner to a serial assault-artist. Your streak of violence is astonishing, Granger.”

“Never a dull moment with me.” She distractedly answered as she placed the book into her satchel.

Draco finally chuckled, his grin threatening to spill over as he led the way down the tower. “Would you prefer to Floo or apparate, Rocky?”

Amazed at the Muggle pop culture reference, Hermione almost stumbled over her own feet. “You know of Rocky?”

“Contrary to what you may think of me as a former Slytherin, I don’t live in a dungeon.”

“But Rocky?” She repeated.

“The man’s a screen legend. It’s not that hard to know of such Muggle movies. Though I’ll say it now that your fist is nowhere close to Rocky’s, just in case your ego inflates and you reckon you could punch your way out of a fist-fight – don’t.”

“I’m sorry, you must have mistaken me for you, again.” Hermione smirked. “My ego is very much well-tamed.”

“As I was saying – Floo or to apparate?”

“You’re not going to tell me that you have access to the Floo network here as an alumnus of Hogwarts, are you?”

“No, McGonagall would have our heads if we used the network here as and when we liked.”

“And rightly so, Mr. Malfoy. And that’s _Professor_ to you as I’m sure I have earned that title well enough from the years of teaching and the credentials I hold to my position.”

Both Hermione and said wizard stilled at the foot of the stairs, their faces sharing matching expressions of unexpected surprise at the sound of the voice. Hermione couldn’t help but felt as if she was in her first year again; caught being somewhere she shouldn’t be in the castle grounds at night.

“I don’t suppose either one of you would be dropping by for a cup of tea at my office to say hello?” Professor McGonagall continued. “The Grey Lady informed me of your presences.”

“Professor, it’s a delight to see you.” Draco said quickly, turning around with a polite curve his lips plastered. “We didn’t think we should bother you so late into the night.”

“I am aged, Draco, not decrepit.” The sharp eyes of the elderly witch narrowed with a glimmer of sarcasm. Hermione held back a smile. “A pot of tea with my two former students wouldn’t take up that much of my energy. Comparing the both of you to the combination of Potter, Weasley and Ms. Granger here, or the likes of Potter’s father and Sirius Black, I’m fairly sure that my endurance has been tested and stretched to its best.”

Hermione almost turned red as the recollection of mishaps that the trio had brought themselves into throughout their years in Hogwarts. Draco merely raised his right eyebrow with a haughty smirk in her direction. She gave the headmistress a meek smile in greeting. “Hello, Professor.”

“Good evening, Hermione. Should I have been expecting you and Draco this evening?”

“We were in Angus for the Magpies’ Quidditch match and thought we could drop by for old times’ sake.”

“Ah yes. The match against Puddlemere.” Professor McGonagall turned to look at Draco with an appreciative smile. “Well done on catching the Snitch.”

Hermione’s own lips curled upwards again as she recalled the Hogwarts’ Headmistress being a supporter of the Montrose Magpies.

“Though do remember you’re not a cat with nine lives, Draco. I’d hate to open the Prophet to find out one of our alumni had foolishly flung himself off the broom and met Death from such obtuse instincts.”

Hermione snickered at the thought of a cat with platinum-blond fur and Draco shot her a narrowed glare.

“Thank you, Professor. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Brilliant flying skills though I must say.”

Draco flashed Hermione an immodest grin and she found her streak of competitiveness rising within her.

“Professor McGonagall, would you like for me to owl you the book of Transfiguration that you had been looking for? I managed to get a copy of it yesterday.” She spoke up as they walked down the hallways towards the Headmistress’ office.

“Did you? That’s wonderful! Merlin knows how long I’ve been looking for that out-of-print edition of Complications and Considerations of Shapeshifting. The book itself shape-shifts and caused a headache for its publisher to continue any more runs of it after the first 100 copies.”

“I’ll have it sent over first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you for looking for it, Hermione. I am appreciative of that.” Professor McGonagall pleasantly said.

“Professor – I have two pairs of tickets in the Top Box for the next match against Braga Broomfleet for the European championships if you’d like them?” Draco casually asked, earning a frown from Hermione.

“Didn’t those tickets sold out a week ago?”

“They did. But as players, we get tickets for our family and friends. I’d be tremendously pleased if you would have them, Professor.”

Professor McGonagall peered over her glasses with a raised eyebrow at Draco. “Are you sure you wouldn’t want to give them to your mother, or your friends? It is after all the final match for the group rounds that’d determine the quarter finals of the league.”

“They would best be entertained with the finals if we get to that.”

“Well then. It’s very kind of you to offer.”

“Professor, would you –”

The elderly witch suddenly raised her hand, wordlessly interjecting into Hermione’s approach. “Now, what is it with the both you this evening?” She asked in half amusement and the other half toned in knowing suspicion.

Hermione’s ears turned into her usual tell-tale heat of embarrassment and she caught the similar flash of shame on Draco’s features.

“I see that our two top students are still very much competitive against one another.” The Headmistress continued with amusement lacing her voice before she murmured the password to the waiting gargoyle statues. “Which brings me to the baffling question of what brings the both of you to be here together.”

The younger witch’s ears continued to burn as she wondered what indeed induced her to be in the company of her former childhood nemesis in the grounds of their school at night. A particular green-eyed wizard with incorrigible raven hair came into mind.

_‘Harry James Potter. Retribution will come out of this.’_

Draco and she spent an hour in the Headmistress’ office over tea and biscuits as they caught up on the going-ons of Hogwarts, Quidditch – which almost had Hermione drawing out her book from her bag, and the Ministry. At the end of their tea, Professor McGonagall had warmly offered both of them a hug as she bade them farewell and Hermione couldn’t help but found the sight of Draco gladly accepting the gesture without a flinch of discomfort as rather much gratifying. It proved that old misconceptions do change with time and forgiveness still stemmed from the heart if only one let it and offered it without reservations.

They apparated back to Cardiff, just outside of the other end of Bute Park that was close to the Cardiff Metropolitan University. Hermione sighed wistfully at the now closed park as she remembered that she had spent so much time with the bookshop that she had hardly took in the cosy autumn season in the port city.

“Fancy a walk, Granger? Hailey Park is open if you would like a visit.” Draco offered, as if noticing her longing glance at the autumn foliage.

“Just wanted to take in the leaves and scent of the season before winter comes around. I haven’t been around the city much since moving here. It’s a shame really.”

“You could always come here on a Sunday. The bookshop’s closed then, isn’t it?” He paused for a moment as if mentally running through his schedule before he continued, “My Sunday’s available.”

“Are you offering me a day out in Cardiff with tour guide Malfoy?”

He shifted between his feet and grimaced. “That sounds daunting when you put it that way.”

Hermione easily laughed. “I’d be pleased.” She said, catching her breath with gaiety. “Seven in the morning?”

Draco nodded. “We could start with breakfast.”

“And then Cardiff Castle, Bute Park, the National Museum, Llandaff Cathedral, Y Senedd, Flat Holm Island, St Fagans and finally, Dyffryn Gardens.”

Draco stared at her with sheer bafflement colouring his features. “Did you – have you planned this, Granger?”

“I may have looked up the places I would like to take a visit to.” She grinned.

“Were you just waiting for me to offer to take you around the city for this?”

“I was hoping, but I wasn’t relying on it. I figured if you never offered, I’d just go on my own – perhaps with Ginny.”

“So you were plotting.”

She shook her head. “I don’t plot. I plan.”

“You laid out the bait just waiting for me to hook onto it.” Draco pointed out, silver grey eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“I merely suggested and you decided.” She gave him a crafty look and started walking towards the streets of Llandaff.

“And there I was being sorted into Slytherin.” He lightly huffed as he fell into step beside her. A smirk curled at his lips. “You’re cunning, Granger – I’ll give you that.”

“After what you did with your conditioning of me being your Healer?”

“So this is revenge?”

“Part one.”

“This is only part _one_?”

Draco’s tone of aghast had Hermione’s grin widening.


End file.
